


Fuse Box

by Zjol



Category: PAYDAY (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-03-31 10:18:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3974416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zjol/pseuds/Zjol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He doesn't like you."</p><p>Hoxton doesn't like anyone, especially after prison. Wolf is a sad dog kicked to the curb. Dallas is the overbearing father. Houston is the new kid trying to fit in. And Chains is possibly the most well-adjusted heister on the block. </p><p>Hoxton was finally settling into things after his revenge, but it was interrupted by the arrival of a new crew member, Jacket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Full Force Forward

The Payday crew was still in the process of moving into their new safe house. Marked boxes, some still sealed, sat against walls, waiting for the day their owners to unpack them. Dallas stepped into the living quarters, lip curled in mild disappointment at the dilapidated state, with the potholed floorboards and stained wallpaper. He gingerly circled the premise then out to the backyard. Boxes. Boxes, everywhere. Lazy bastards were probably downstairs.

He returned to the main room and clipped down the stairs, greeting Chains who sat by the laptop, probably reviewing notes from Bain. He rounded a dark corner and noticed the bulbs were shot with corresponding dents in the wall behind them. "Chains?" he called.

"Yeah? What's up, my man?"

"Don't we have a shooting range?"

Dallas heard a few quick keystrokes, a pause, another rapid succession of taps, then finally, "Yeah."

"Just checking."

Shaking his head, he strolled into the the shooting range and, not to his surprise, no one was to be seen. He peered into the next room over. Hoxton was seated by the desk, his back to Dallas as he watched, or supervised, Wolf messing with one of his backup masks. Dallas stepped into the doorway as Wolf looked up with a crooked grin, the former mentally reeling from the sharp smell of spray paint prodding aggressively at his senses.

"Hey Dallas, look, it's all pink now," Wolf said, holding up a rather pungent latex unicorn mask. Dallas, ignoring Wolf's show and tell, turned to the both of them and asked curtly, "Which one of you shot the lights and which one of you will have to change it?" Hoxton completely turned around in his seat with an impatient scowl.

"Don't we have a shooting range?" he asked pointedly. Dallas looked over to Wolf who had decided that the mask was suddenly more interesting than everything else around him. The Swede was doing everything to avoid eye contact, which frayed Dallas' impatience.

"Wolf."

"Hm?"

"Change the bulbs before I get back or you're not getting any takeout."

Wolf made an animalistic whine before dropping the mask on the desk and sulking out the room. Hoxton got up from his chair, stretching as he followed Wolf's route, muttering, "Gotta make sure the idiot doesn't electrocute himself or something."

Dallas was left standing alone in the room with the unwavering stench of spray paint, wondering how they even managed to rob one bank, let alone dozens.

\--

Hoxton leaned against the concrete wall, watching Wolf struggling with the light fixture. "Just twist it," he yawned.

"I am twisting it."

"Twist other way, genius."

"I already tried the other w—oh." Wolf dropped his arms and looked up at the bulb, the cable swinging angrily. Hoxton followed his gaze. It looked fastened in well enough. Satisfied, Wolf hopped off the box, landing on the floor, as did the light bulb.

The two stared down at the shattered pieces of glass and metal.

"Christ, Wolf."

He already was on his way to grab another bulb.

\--

Houston and Dallas returned to the safe house laden with takeout containers. Dallas grimaced at the sorry state that was their headquarters when he surveyed for a table and found none.

"Over here," Houston gestured, placing his bags down on the grimy counter and knocking over a plastic bottle of who knows what. Houston looked it over before dumping it in the trash.

Dallas pulled out some paper plates and plastic utensils, setting them up by the end of the counter as Houston opened up the boxes and laid them side by side. Chains wandered up the stairs, sniffing. "I smell Thai food," he declared, pleased.

"And Chinese," Houston added, positioning the napkins by plates.

"Hey, can you get Wolf and Hoxton up here?" Dallas asked, rifling through one of the plastic bags.

"Sure," Chains said. He didn't take one step. He turned his head over his shoulder and hollered down the hatch. "WOLF. HOXTON. GET YOUR ASSES UP HERE, WE GOT SIU MAI."

Dallas exhaled slowly. "Thanks, Chains." The enforcer just chuckled back at him, taking a plate and loading it with food.

Dallas watched as Wolf bounded up the stairs, followed by a disheveled Hoxton. They joined them by the island counter, both reaching to snatch a paper plate and a fork.

As they began to fork the sweet and sour pork over their rice, Dallas noticed that Wolf's hands were all bandaged up, the white gauzes stained a rusty red.

Investigative, he asked, "Did you manage to replace all of the shot bulbs?"

"Yes, sir."

"After smashing a couple and trying to pick them up with his bare fucking hands," Hoxton spat, bemused.

Dallas shrugged and picked up a plate of his own. "As long as you got the job done."

\--

"Have an announcement, crew," Dallas said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "We will be receiving a new member soon. Which means, this—" he gestured to the entire vicinity of the safe house "—needs to be patched, fixed, and completely set up before he arrives." He looked to the diners seated around the island counter; Chains looked slightly intrigued, Wolf didn't react, and Hoxton just seemed to be more irritated than ever.

"It's fine the way it is," Hoxton scowled. Dallas wasn't too sure if he was talking about the safe house or the crew.

"Yeah, we don't, we don't have to fix anything," Wolf said between bites.

Chains frowned and looked over at him. "We sleep in sleeping bags on top of coffee tables." He began to fill his plate up with the Thai dishes. "If you ask me, it's 'bout time we get this place made."

"No, you twats, I was talking about getting another heister," Hoxton asserted with a miffed expression. He turned to Dallas. "We do not need another loose end. We're doing fine with who we've got. Better, actually."

"We looked him over, he wouldn't be a loose end. In fact, he'd be a beneficial addition to our team," Dallas responded, raising a brow.

"'We'?" Hoxton repeated.

"Bain and I."

"So we don't get a say on who we want on the crew now, do we?" Hoxton asserted hotly.

"Hoxton." Chains gave him a warning look.

"No, fuck you and fuck you." Hoxton jumped up from his seat and slammed his plate down onto the countertop. His plastic fork clattered as it fell to the floor. "Since when was this a fucking dictatorship?"

On his way out of the safe house, he kicked an empty bottle of whiskey laying in the hallway, a loud "Fuck!" echoing after him.

Dallas chanced a glance at Wolf, expecting him to also jump up and follow suit, but the technician just looked torn, his dark brows knitted loosely together.

"You going to join him, Wolf?" Dallas asked. The Swede froze, then shook his head, eyes tactfully averted from the exit Hoxton took.

Houston sent a look at his elder, silently asking for permission to tail the Brit. Dallas shook his head. He went back to item two on the agenda.

"We're going to start with the wall paint and have the floorboards replaced. These shitty planks of plywood are an eyesore." Dallas paused, scrutinizing the area. "And get these old ass couches replaced."

"Right on," Chains said, scooping rice into his mouth. Wolf nodded numbly, bandaged hands placing his plate back on the countertop.

\--

The next few weeks, the safe house was buzzing. They opted to do the work themselves, Dallas had said something about team bonding, though Houston was sure it was more about security and privacy. They didn't need anyone to know about the safe house. It was called a safe house for a reason.

The walls were smoothed over and painted or pasted with decorative wallpaper. The floor was a polished shine, adorned with lush rugs. They were moving in the last of the furniture, just side tables and couches left. With Chains, Houston lifted up the three cushion sofa and they slowly worked their way in from the back lot.

Wolf was no where to be seen, at least not immediately, but Houston figured he was setting up his room. The heister had three boxes to his name, while the rest of the crew only had one each.

The two slowly lowered it down by the glass coffee table by the back of the safe house. Chains whistled. "Alright, break time, boys." He stretched out on the newly placed couch, sighing in content as he sunk into the depths of plushness. Houston left the man to enjoy his sofa and began to traverse the house, half looking at the renovations and half searching for the Swedish technician.

His assumption turned out to be correct as he found Wolf neatly tucking fresh bedsheets in the second bed of his room. He hesitated, freezing by the door.

Houston was still fairly new to the team and didn't have close to the extensive experience that his brother had. And even with his limited knowledge of the crew, he knew better than to be the catalyst for the switch of Wolf's explosive emotions.

Houston opted to stay right in the doorway, not sure if a single step in would be considered trespassing or not. Conversationally, he gestured to Wolf's walls, "I see, er, your posters are up."

"Yeah, I think I unboxed all of my stuff by now," Wolf said blithely, smoothing a hand along the corner of the crisp sheet. Houston waited a beat.

"Is that for Hoxton?"

Wolf nodded solemnly, looking down absentmindedly at the neatly made bed. "He'll be back." Houston felt that was less directed at him and more towards the Swede.

He made a move to leave, "Well, I think Jacket, our new guy, will be arriving sometime this evening. You want me to help set up a room for him? Just a side table and dresser left to—"

"Jacket?" Wolf asked, instantly perking up. "That's his name?"

Right. Dallas hadn't told the rest of them, yet. "Yeah," Houston replied hesitantly, figuring it did no harm to spoil it a few hours beforehand. Besides, he paused, observing the sudden energy Wolf had obtained, he seemed to be already aware of who this man was. Still, to make sure, "You know him?"

Practically bouncing with excitement, Wolf nodded feverishly as he followed Houston out of his room, "Yeah! Did a job with him once. Didn't think I'd ever see him again."

Unstintingly, the dresser and side table were hauled in quickly with Wolf's help. He even made the bed.

Houston tilted his head, noticing how neat Wolf was able to make it. He wondered briefly about Wolf's previous occupations or his life before Payday, but surmised it was more than foolish to bring it up.

"We good?" Houston asked, clapping his hands together. Wolf gave a nod and shut the door behind them as they stepped out to the main hall. Chains was gently snoring from the couch.

"Are you and Dallas staying for dinner?" Wolf asked.

Houston shrugged. "Yeah, probably. Dallas will want to welcome the new guy." Wolf hummed absentmindedly in approval.

Dallas had his own civilian life to lead as Nathan Steele, and with that, his own apartment. As for Houston, he had plenty of solo experience with crime before Payday; he was used to living alone and preferred it that way.

Chains seemed to be moving back and forth, sometimes staying at his own place and sometimes crashing at the safe house when he stayed far too late into the night when working out contracts.

Wolf was an enigma. Houston couldn't be completely sure on the man's living situation, though he seemed to be comfortably settled in his brand new room. He also had set up a bed for Hoxton, though Houston had an inkling that he had another space available to him. Where else could he have gone for the past few weeks?

Dragan only joined them when called in, as did John Wick and Clover.

Besides, the safe house currently only had three rooms available: one shared between Wolf and Hoxton, one preemptively named for Jacket (this man, too, was an enigma to him), and one for Chains.

The safe house was the agreed meeting facility for the Payday crew, which meant those who didn't already reside there had the additional responsibility of getting there themselves (on time, Dallas had stressed). Houston found it was a small price to pay for his single living arrangement. He wasn't sure if his nerves could take living around these clowns.

\--

Dallas came in a few hours before Jacket's expected arrival with bags of groceries. He looked over the safe house with a satisfied expression. "Good job, crew. Looks amazing," he commented, rolling his dress shirt sleeves up. He stopped by the newly refurbished kitchen and began to stock the fridge, moving items from the plastic bags to the glass shelves. The Payday crew followed curiously, all leaning against the new island counter for a good eyeful.

"You gonna cook, Dallas?" Chains inquired.

"Yeah, you guys look like you deserve a nice home cooked meal."

"Didn't know you could cook," Chains said, genuinely surprised. Dallas stood and reached towards Houston, rubbing his head endearingly.

"Had to keep this once growing boy on a diet of good food. You know, when he wasn't in jail." Houston made a face and ducked out of Dallas' hold.

They began to meander away and partake in their own activities as Dallas got into cooking. It seemed he needed little to no help at all, save the infrequent visits his brother made to wash a few dishes or to stir a pot as Dallas' busied with something else.

Wolf lounged on one of the new couches, facing the hallway to the laundromat. He had a graphic novel opened in his hands, but didn't seem to be completely interested in it, as he spent more time looking up at the hallway. His hands were still covered in bandages, though fewer than before. They were old and peeling.

Dallas began to shoo Houston from the stove and got him to julienne the carrots. "Evenly, little brother," he reminded him.

Houston rolled his eyes as he washed his hands. As he began chopping away by the island counter, he watched Wolf look down at his book, then look up again to watch the doorway, then back down. Houston wasn't sure if Wolf was expecting Jacket or Hoxton, or both.

Dallas also caught sight of Wolf's little head nods up and down, "You alright there?"

"Yeah," Wolf called back, immediately turning back to the book. Dallas exchanged questioning glances with his brother.

Houston wiped his hands dry on a towel and rounded the island counter. He thought about bringing over a first aid kit. He decided not to and sat down by Wolf on the couch, folding his hands together as he watched Wolf pretend to read from the corner of his eyes.

"Waiting for Hoxton?" he asked quietly. Wolf nodded a fraction of an inch. Houston looked over to Dallas in the kitchen, who tilted his head towards the Swede before turning to the pot on the stove.

Houston turned back to Wolf. "Let's go get him, then," Houston offered. Wolf glanced at him and then shook his head.

"He doesn't like you."

Houston felt he didn't like anyone.

Wolf continued, "I can probably find him myself." He stood up, dropping the book on the cushions. He looked over to the kitchen warily.

Houston followed his gaze. "Just get back before dinner."

\--

Chains and Houston were setting up the dinner table with their brand new placemats and silverware. Dinner was prepared, a lot of it to feed the expected six men. Dallas washed his hands and joined the rest of them by the table.

"Where's Wolf?" Chains asked, straightening up. Houston shrugged.

"Should be back soon." It was the only thing he could say.

"Well, if he isn't back now, he's going to miss the arrival he was so excited for," Dallas said, looking to the hallway. Houston shrugged again.

Chains moved into the laundromat bathed in the orange light of sunset. He peered into the large front windows from behind the shelves of detergent. The streets were cracked and empty, the trash cans overflowing with overstuffed black bags. He swept his gaze up and down the road, seeing no signs of any heisters. He stepped back into the safe house and shook his head. "Don't see nobody out there."

Dallas made a resigned expression and turned to the kitchen as Wolf slumped in through back door. Houston noticed his hands had been rebandaged, the adhesive tight and clean. "You're back."

"I'm back," Wolf echoed.

"Our new guy hasn't arrived yet, so you're not technically late," Dallas went on. He took a moment to study Wolf. "Freshen yourself up and come have a seat. Be quick. I'm sure he'll be here soon."

Wolf made a noise of agreeance before heading to his room.

Chains and Houston exchanged puzzled looks before sitting down at the table, careful to not disturb the placemats. The atmosphere was tense, neither of them quite accustomed to Wolf being less than talkative. They figured it was the absence of Hoxton that left Wolf alone and lonely, without someone to tune in to his rambling and noise. It had been weeks already.

Houston was able to take the mantle and mask, but he strongly doubted he could replace what odd friendship the two heisters had.

Chains then offered him a foreign look. He jerked his head sideways, towards Wolf's room. Houston declined, shaking his head silently. It wasn't his place. Chains kept insisting, mouthing, "Go check." The 31-year-old shook his head again. He agreed that it was out of the ordinary for Wolf to be that down, whatever ordinary meant for him, and he agreed that it was somewhat worrying, but was he really the right person to waltz in there?

He was having a head shake head nod battle with Chains before Dallas called out to him. Houston turned to his brother, who tilted his head towards Wolf's room with a similar look.

He shook his head and felt nausea begin to nip at his temples. Dallas nodded towards the door. Boss battle, Houston mused in his head. Shake. Nod. Shake. Nod. Shake. Raise of a wooden spoon.

Jesus.

Houston marched over there and stood before the door, taking a deep breath, and knocked twice. He could feel two pairs of eyes watching him as he waited for a response.

Impatiently, "Wolf, you ok there?"

Silence from the other side.

"Wolf, I'm coming in."

He counted to five before turning the handle.

Houston wasn't sure of what he had expected. Wolf had changed into his black suit, looking like he was ready to go, except for his lying down on his bed sideways. His legs were stretched out, the heels of his dress shoes resting on the carpet.

Something was off.

No, he wasn't totally ready to go. His red tie was strewn across the pillow instead of neatly looped around his neck.

Houston shut the door behind him and stood awkwardly by the foot of the bed. Wolf's eyes were still glued on the ceiling. Houston scratched his head, unsure of how to proceed.

Finally, he asked, "You, uh, you need help with that?" He gestured to the tie.

Rather plainly, Wolf answered: "Nope."

Alright then. "Ok, well, I was just checking to see if you were—"

He was interrupted by two rapt knocks and the deep rumble of Chains voice, "He's here, come on out."

Relieved, Houston watched as Wolf threw the tie over the back of his neck, and too soon finding himself watch the technician secure a trim knot up to his neck. Neat as his bed making. The fuck.

He followed him out.

The safe house was empty, but Houston guessed they were by the back lot. As they crossed the main room, Houston grabbed their masks and handed Wolf his. Fastened on, they entered the lot to find the rest of the Payday crew standing against the wall. Chains turned his head to them, his clown mask veiling his face. Houston took his place beside Dallas, crossing his wrists.

"Looking good, gang," came Bain's voice. Houston found himself looking up and searching. It had been a while since Bain had last decided to speak on the intercom.

They waited, all in pressed suits and polished masks. A dark silver car pulled into the lot, the windows tinted, and then the engine was stopped.

They waited, still, for a sign of life. Chains slowly looked to Dallas, who made no move to acknowledge him. Houston surveyed the scene and tensed up, mentally preparing a mode of action. He had a Bernetti 9 on him, hidden in the coat of his suit. Dallas made the smallest of signals to command him to stand down. Houston couldn't, but tried to visibly relax instead. There was no reason to fuck shit up at that exact moment.

Oddly enough, Wolf was just as calm as Dallas. He had a patient look about him, his head slightly tilted back, his right hand loosely holding on to his left wrist. Houston turned back to the car at the sound of a door opening.

A rather large chicken head popped up followed by a varsity jacket.

Houston found that strange, but he was one of the four men dressed in suits with grotesquely out of place clown masks. With that in mind, he decided that it wasn't exactly his place to judge.

The man referred to as Jacket straightened up completely, his right hand bracing on the hood of his car, the other clutching a small device. He didn't say a thing.

"Welcome," Dallas greeted with a nod. "So glad you could join us."

There was a click. Then whirring. " _Thank you_ ," came a female voice, clipped and distorted. It was coming from the machine in his hand.

Dallas didn't seem to be a bit fazed, but Houston found himself making a face of revulsion before he could stop, glad he had a clown mask on. Sure, the rest of them wore creepy ass masks, but at least they all had the human capacity to speak.

Fuck, now he's really glad he won't be living in the safe house. Two psychopaths under one roof.

Dallas continued, "I'm Da—"

Click. " _Dallas, Texas. Houston, Texas_." The chicken head faced them as their names were clicked out. " _Chains. K9 predator_." He lingered on Wolf.

"I see you already know who we are," Dallas said slowly, suddenly apprehensive. He pulled off his mask, inciting the others to do so. Wolf's giddy grin was revealed.

Dallas gestured to the door. "Please come in. I will show you around the safe house and to your room."

" _Thank you_ ," came the female voice. Quick squeak of tape. " _Please proceed._ "

-

Dallas stayed in the kitchen as Wolf had volunteered to do the tour. Chains sat by the island counter in disbelief joined by Houston. They silently shared the sentiment of, "Holy shit, this new guy is fucking nuts and probably won't hesitate to slit our throats with a plastic spoon if ordered to." Or maybe that was just Chains.

Dallas hauled the covered dishes out to the centre table just as Wolf and Jacket came up the stairs. "Just in time," he said over his shoulder. "Have a seat."

\--

Dinner was awkward for nearly everyone but Jacket and Wolf. The former had his mask off as well and it was, if possible, more strange and unsettling to see a man use a tape recorder to speak than a giant rooster. Houston tried not to stare, but he noted that Jacket looked no more different from an average joe than anyone in the room.

Houston watched as he wiped his mouth with a napkin and clicked out, " _Thank you_."

He even had manners like a regular person.

\--

The dish were rinsed and dumped into the dishwasher. Dallas and Houston said their goodbyes and headed back to their respective homes. Chains retired to his room and the bass of his snores reverberated softly through his door.

Wolf showered and changed into his sleepwear, rather drowsy now that he was clean and full with a home cooked meal.

Shaking himself awake, he went out and sat by Jacket's door and waited for him to return from the bathroom.

Wolf nearly dozed off before hearing the sound of a door closing. Jacket approached him, in his teal shirt and boxers, carrying what looked to be his jacket and jeans, folded messily in his hands. He shifted the items under his arm and offered his free hand to Wolf, pulling him up and off of the floor. He opened the door to his room and placed his clothes on the dresser, letting Wolf in.

Jacket wasn't the most expressive person, verbally or through expression. He was aware he was difficult to read, but that's what made him fit right in to the Payday crew.

Wolf seated himself on the bed, his back to the wall. He didn't say a word as he reached over and grabbed the pile of clothes off the dresser. He unfolded what was a pathetic attempt at neatness and refolded it. He returned it to the top of the dresser, the corners even and pressed.

They wore masks during heists. They were honed in reading subtleties of body language when facial expressions were unavailable. A poorly sent or received message could send a contract to failure.

Jacket propped up his pillow and leaned his back against it. His tape recorder was on the side table, just within reach, but he knew that he wouldn't need it. Wolf certainly didn't.

He was picking at thin scabs on his hands. Jacket watched for a bit before reaching out and stopping him. It was no use to interfere with recovery.

Wolf folded his fingers together as an effort to cease his picking.

"Hoxton wouldn't come back."

He fell silent again.

"He doesn't like you."

Jacket looked at him.

"He likes some people," Wolf responded indignantly. "Like Chains and Clover and..." He trailed off as Jacket glanced down at the Swede's hands and back up to his face. Wolf looked embarrassed.

"I think I'm just entertaining to him," he said quietly.

Jacket gave a small shouldered shrug.

"He was mad at me, Jacket." He shifted. "Really mad. I think it was because I didn't follow him."

Jacket listened thoughtfully, then shook his head.

"Maybe," Wolf said, unconvinced. He slid down until he was on his back, his feet dangling over the edge as he laid down sideways on the bed. "He stopped being mad when he saw my hands, though." He raised them up to his face, turning them over. He turned his head around to look at the blond. "Maybe," he repeated.

He turned back to his hands, examining the fading pink scars and raised dark scabs.

\--

Wolf woke up in his own bed.

He rolled around a bit, to try and anchor himself in his surroundings, but he was still groggy with sleep and gave up quickly. He heard a gentle knock on the door, but was slow to respond.

He struggled to form words, but gave up again, hoping whoever out there understood what noises he had just made. They must have, because the next sound Wolf heard was the door opening and closing. Then it was the rustle of fabric.

Click. " _Wolf_."

He winced at the sudden volume.

He heard something plastic being tinkered with with. Another click. " _Wolf_." It was softer this time around.

"Itssok," he slurred. "Moornin', Jack." He cracked one eye open and watched as Jacket put the device back into his pocket. He was dressed, the signature varsity jacket on as well as the wrapped bandages.

Wolf groaned, forcing himself to sit up. "When did I fall asleep?" Wolf looked up at Jacket. "I did? Sorry, I must have been a load to move." The technician couldn't read Jacket's next expression. He squinted, "What?"

Jacket suddenly rose from the bed and opened the door and walked out, his back turned to him. "Uh, wait, hold on," Wolf kicked the blankets off and tried not to fall as he scrambled out of his room.

He froze when he entered the main hall of the safe house, unsure of what exactly he was looking at.

Jacket was standing in the centre, now facing him with an expectant look. At his feet was a livid Hoxton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to move on from ff.net to AO3. I like the tagging system here. Also moved from League of Legends to Payday: The Heist and Payday 2. Who knew. Zjol.


	2. And Now We Wait

"I don't think he likes that, Jacket," he began cautiously. Hoxton had his hands tied behind his back, his legs bound together, duct tape holding his mouth shut. His sharp eyes were burning with rage. Wolf then noticed his nose was bleeding and the silver of the duct tape was stained. He sputtered, "Did you break his fucking nose?!"

 

Still in disbelief, Wolf crossed the room to the kitchen and pulled out a bag of frozen peas. He crouched down and pressed it to Hoxton's nose as he began to peel up the edges of the tape. Wolf looked up at him, "Ready?" Hoxton glared back at him. Wolf ripped it off as fast as he can.

 

As soon as it was off, "BLOODY HELL!" Wolf flinched. "Now get this fucking rope off me!" He began to reach behind Hoxton to examine the knot.

 

Click. " _Arms outstretched_." Wolf turned around.

 

Jacket stared past him and locked eyes with Hoxton. It was a tense few seconds and Wolf was caught in the middle of it.

 

Just when he thought he couldn't take it anymore, the Brit cracked the thick silence. "So this is the new guy," he said, his voice slightly nasal. "So we got ourselves not only one, but two lunatics in the house." He glanced at Wolf. "What a lovely surprise. You know, next to getting my house broken into and the shit getting kicked out of me. Oh," he said, turning his attention back to Jacket. "Being forcefully dragged back into here is just the cherry on top."

 

No one said a word. Hoxton looked back and forth between them, incredulous and impatient. Wolf turned to Jacket, who only watched the fugitive, two blank eyes burning holes into him.

 

Calmly, Hoxton tilted one shoulder downwards to expose the knots. "Will you please just untie me?"

 

\--

 

Wolf was locked out of his room. He was a little glum about it, but it wasn't like he couldn't unlock himself out. He could with force. Especially with Jacket backing him up.

 

But he wasn't going to do that.

 

As soon as Hoxton was freed, he marched straight to their room. He shut the door and locked it and hasn't come out since.

 

It was out of the ordinary for him to behave this way. More so than usual.

 

After prison, everything seemed to be out of the ordinary about him. He was jittery and easily startled and easily angered. It was the stress of prison, Dallas had mentioned to Wolf, when Hoxton was out of earshot.

 

But whatever went on in his head was too well hidden behind crude remarks and his cold uncaring attitude, behind his hard stares and scoffs. The crew was glad he was back, especially Wolf. So much that the Swede stuck with him wherever he went. He partnered up with him when they had to split up during heists, he sat beside him back at the safe house. He didn't dare leave him alone again.

 

But locked in their room, Hoxton was safe. This was the safe house. He should be alright.

 

Wolf sat on the couch accompanied by Jacket. They've been sitting for a while. He figured Hoxton would get hungry soon. Or need to relieve himself. And then he would open the door. By himself, on his own terms. He wasn't about to let himself violate Hoxton's sleeping quarters. He probably had enough of that in prison. And from Jacket.

 

"I think he's upset," Wolf whispered to Jacket. The blond turned his head to him. Then back to the door. They sat some more and Wolf got noticeably more nervous. "Do you think I should check to see if he's alright?" Jacket gave him an indifferent look.

 

Wolf rose from the couch and approached the door as if it was an injured animal. He was poised to knock, fist raised, and narrowly missing Hoxton's face.

 

Wolf jumped back, studying Hoxton's face for any sign of impending anger.

 

"Need something?" Hoxton asked. He lifted a brow. "No? Alright." He pushed past the Swede to the kitchen. He opened up the fridge, rummaging through it as Wolf watched.

 

Jacket pulled out his phone, playing a flashy mobile game as he ignored the two.

 

"Christ, I bet it was Dallas who stocked this fucking fridge." Hoxton reached in further and pulled out an apple. He ran the tap, rinsing it before taking a bite into it. With one hand free, he continued his ransacking for food in the cupboards.

 

Wolf stepped into the kitchen space and gently nudged the fridge door shut. Hoxton didn't notice, pulling back from the shelves with a box of crackers in one hand. He looked satisfied and tucked the box underneath his elbow, freeing a hand to grab a glass and fill it with cold water.

 

He retreated back to his room with his loot, Wolf loosely following him until the door was shut in his face again. He stood in front of it, staring at the painted wood, slow to react.

 

He turned and sat back down next to Jacket on the couch.

 

\--

 

Wolf slept on the couch for the next few days. Chains, Houston, and other crew members who dropped by the safe house during that time were visibly puzzled, but didn't say anything. Not yet, at least. By the third night, Jacket must have taken pity on him and brought out his own pillow and blanket to join him in the living room, crashing on the couch across from Wolf's, the glass coffee table separating them. Or maybe Jacket thought of it as a fun, sleepover type activity. Or both. Wolf didn't pry.

 

During the day, the technician caught glimpses of Hoxton leaving the bedroom, though that was rare.

 

He sometimes collected crackers and other readily available snacks when he was out, often enough for Wolf to notice and opt to do a precursory search through the pantry himself, picking out what he thought Hoxton would want and placing them in plain sight on the island counter.

 

It was the fifth night and Chains had to ask.

 

"Are two camping or some shit?" he asked, gesturing to their sleeping arrangements. "It's been a week. The fuck is going on?" He leaned against the arms of Jacket's makeshift bed.

 

Jacket looked to Wolf to answer.

 

"Just hanging out, you know," the Swede shrugged. Chains looked unconvinced, but nodded anyways. "Testing out the new couches."

 

"For a week."

 

"Mmhm."

 

"Mmhm, my ass."

 

Jacket seemed to have detected the awkwardness and pulled out his phone again. He stretched out on the cushions and promptly immersed himself in the muted mobile game. Wolf silently cursed him. Chains didn't even acknowledge him.

 

"When did Hoxton come back? Why's he holed up in his room?" Chains pressed. He paused, glancing over to the bedroom door, as if checking to see if the fugitive was there. Then in a lowered voice: "I know it's none of my business what you two do in your personal time," he continued, raising his hands. "But now I live here, too. So what's up?"

 

"You could maybe not live here," Wolf suggested lamely. He caught Jacket shaking his head though the corner of his eyes.

 

Chains was not in the least amused.

 

He leaned closer, menace lacing across his features. "Listen here, Wolfy; resolve this fucking shit fest. I need to use the couch, too."

 

"It is a nice couch," Wolf said.

 

"It _is_ a nice couch," he agreed. "So what's the problem?"

 

Wolf hesitated before giving his answer. This was Chains, a trusted team member of two years. He hasn't exactly given him a reason to be wary of him.

 

He settled on a vague answer. "Just giving Hoxton some space."

 

"Just giving Hoxton some space," Chains echoed with a disbelieving look.

 

"I think he's upset."

 

"You think he's upset," Chains straightened up, crossing his arms. Wolf frowned up at him.

 

"Yes," he replied, trying to ignore Chains' repetitions.

 

"And what did you do to make him upset?"

 

"I didn't do anything!" Wolf said indignantly.

 

"Hoxton just doesn't get upset out of nowhere."

 

Wolf shrugged and looked away, opting to stare at the tiny flashing screen of Jacket's phone.

 

Chains was relentless. "Go back to the beginning; how'd he get here?"

 

Oh, boy. "Uh. Jacket, you want to take this?"

 

The blond turned his head and locked eyes with Chains as he violently mimed breaking a window with his elbow, slapping tape across his own mouth, then raising his arms touching at the wrist.

 

"Holy shit."

 

"He was...he was probably exaggerating," Wolf said nervously.

 

"And you wonder why he's all fucked up—"

 

"Will you twats please shut up, it's fucking one in the morning!" Hoxton called out, leaning against his bedroom door frame. "Please, you're all giving me a fucking migraine."

 

The three froze and turned to look at the topic of their discussion. The silence was so sharp, it seemed to puncture and ring in Wolf's ears.

 

Chains went first. "I didn't mean 'fucked up' as in fucked up, I meant emotionally—fuck, I meant—"

 

The fugitive raised a hand, "Don't give two shits." The shared silent confusion was thick in the room. Hoxton exhaled through his nose, suddenly exhausted. "Had to take some time to adjust from the luxurious silence I got during the last few weeks to this fucking torment of loud fucking ass roommates."

 

He looked at Jacket, eyes searing into him.

 

"He doesn't. He doesn't talk," Chains said automatically. Hoxton turned his gaze to him.

 

"Sorry, did we not witness the same mime act of my home being broken into, me given a bloody nose and then me being tied up and forced back here into this hellhole?" he asked.

 

"Jacket didn't go over the part with the bloody..." Wolf trailed off.

 

Hoxton gave him a cold look. "I must have seen the director's cut, then," Hoxton said after the pause of disbelief.

 

Chains clapped his hands together once, startling Wolf, and began backing up. "Alright, you three have a good night," he gave them a quick nod before disappearing into his room.

 

It was Hoxton's turn to leave: "One more peep and I'm coming out here with a fucking sharpened toothbrush."

 

"Wait, Hoxton—"

 

"No, Wolf, you can not come in."

 

\--

 

It was dark and quiet. Wolf couldn't sleep. It was hours after the incident, but his mind was still buzzing and keeping him awake.

 

Hoxton had left the bedroom for more than five minutes. And he talked! He talked to them. And he was Hoxton. Old Hoxton. Before breakout Hoxton. And he was complaining. Old before breakout Hoxton was complaining about Hoxton things like noise. It was just like old times.

 

But it wasn't old times.

 

Wolf was still locked out of his room.

 

\--

 

Wolf shifted on the couch, trying to get comfortable. He tossed and turned, flipping his pillow over and kicking his blankets off and pulling them up again. He tried laying down on his side. Then on his back. Finally, he surrendered and sat up, the blanket pooling at his waist.

 

It was 3:12am. At least, that was what he could make out from the wall clock in the kitchen.

 

Wolf looked to Jacket with a sudden idea. He wasn't sure of what he had expected, but it wasn't Jacket blankly staring back across the coffee table, his features barely discernible through the darkness of early morning.

 

Whispering, "Did I wake you?"

 

Jacket nodded gravely. He pulled himself up and rubbed his face with one hand as the other casted his blanket aside. He swung his legs over the edge of the couch and folded his fingers together, an imploring look on his face.

 

"I have an idea," Wolf answered in a low voice. He sneaked a glance at Hoxton's door. Then back at Jacket. "You should apologize. To Hoxton."

 

Jacket didn't seem to react, but Wolf could see his mind ticking and working through the idea.

 

The blond flicked his eyes over to the wall clock.

 

"Not now," Wolf hissed. Jacket looked back at him, brows slightly pulled together in confusion. "I don't know, like in the morning. After breakfast." Wolf pondered a moment. "Hoxton is a bit of an asshole in the mornings. He doesn't like mornings."

 

Jacket pressed his lips together firmly.

 

"He likes some things," Wolf whispered back. Boy, he was getting real tired of having to come up with people and things Hoxton didn't hate.

 

Jacket shook his head, his mouth still a hard line.

 

For the first time, Wolf couldn't read him. He couldn't understand the minute details or the collective expression as a whole. Jacket must have picked up on that, because his features took on a more determined look as he shook his head once more.

 

"I'm not. I don't," Wolf faltered, trying his damn hardest to comprehend the signals.

 

Jacket stopped, his face wiped clean of expressions. He stood up and opened the door to his room and Wolf could hear gentle noises of drawers being opened. As Jacket padded back to the living room, the soft click of a pen punctuated the silence of night.

 

He sat back down and scribbled something down on his note pad. He placed it down onto the table, swivelled it around, and pushed it towards Wolf.

 

The Swede looked down at the blue chicken scratches.

 

'Prison bad.'

 

Wolf frowned at the words and then at Jacket. The blond snatched the note pad back and wrote more. He presented it to Wolf.

 

'Prison guards.'

 

When met with another bewildered look, Jacket wrote even more.

 

'Reminder.' He circled it enthusiastically, then underlined it, before handing it to Wolf.

 

"Hoxton's never said anything about any guards," Wolf muttered. Jacket tilted his head to the left with an appeased expression. A second passed and the gears clicked into place; Hoxton, Jacket, prison, and all of this. The Swede cursed under his breath, mentally scolding himself. A deep inhale of breath sank into his lungs as another odd feeling bloomed in his chest.

 

Wolf got up and began to cross the room, then stopped and paused to think before turning around to face Jacket. "You're really good at this."

 

Jacket waved him away and settled himself back onto the couch.

 

\--

 

Wolf knocked on the door.

 

"Hoxton," he whispered. He peered at the next door over, listening for any signs of stirring from Chains' room. He knocked again. "Hoxton, I know you're awake." He leaned in, ear brushing the painted wood. There was dead silence, but that was to be expected of a seasoned stealth heister.

 

He placed a hand on the doorknob, debating on whether he should open it or not. The metal was cold, but quickly warmed from his touch. He let his hand drop, noting that Hoxton wouldn't take it too kindly to another person bursting into his room in the ungodly hours of morning.

 

But that left him trapped.

 

\--

 

Hoxton shook himself awake, eyes snapping open, wincing at the muted morning daylight. He groaned as he rose from the bed, stretching his back and arms. He really needed to piss.

 

\--

 

"Fuck."

 

Hoxton stared down at the lump by his feet.

 

He looked up, sweeping his eyes across the room. It was early enough to be quiet in the safe house. Didn't need to change that.

 

He stepped over the prone, sleeping form of Wolf and rounded the couches, aiming for the bathroom.

 

He pissed. He washed his hands, dried them, too. He opened the bathroom door and froze, a thick sense of dread coating his insides.

 

Jacket had sat up on the couch, his blankets tossed to the side. Hoxton made the unfortunate mistake of establishing eye contact. Jacket held his gaze, solid and steady. He didn't have a expression on, shit, he was a fucking robot, staring like he was studying a human subject on how to act like one. They watched each other from opposite ends of the safe house for a longer time than deemed socially acceptable. This had to end soon. Hoxton mustered up the sharpest sneer and breezed past him and over Wolf. He felt the burn of Jacket's possibly robot laser eyes on him the entire time.

 

He shut the door behind him and waited some time before letting out the biggest exhale of his life, a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

 

\--

 

Jacket was awake as soon as someone was making noise. It was Hoxton rising from slumber. Wolf did say the fugitive wasn't a morning person. So Jacket waited until he was done his business before getting up.

 

Hoxton froze like a deer in headlights, or like a target with a red dot slotted between their eyes. Jacket was unsure of when to apologize. Or how. He was pretty sure he had a recording for it. Somewhere. He'd have to find it. Hoxton looked like he wanted to say something first. So Jacket waited. He gave him ample time to speak up. It was the polite thing to do.

 

Except it didn't look like Hoxton was going to say anything soon.

 

He figured he had to be patient. He was aware they weren't on the best terms right now, especially—and there Hoxton goes, he's returning to his room. He made a sudden weird motion in his gait as he entered his bedroom. Jacket tilted his head to catch a glimpse of the doorway.

 

It was Wolf, still snoozing, on the floor.

 

\--

 

Wolf munched on his slice of pizza irritably as Jacket watched him curiously across the island. He had guessed the Swede was also not a morning person. He looked around the kitchen. There was an steel electric kettle still plugged in on one of the other counters. He inspected it. The water was lukewarm. Jacket flipped the switch and searched the cupboards for tea as he waited for it to boil. Wolf was still grumbling as he reached for another slice.

 

Chains had made himself and Jacket breakfast earlier in the day. He had, at one point, questioned about the curled up Wolf by Hoxton's door, but didn't press. He was probably done prying into their lives. Chains had loaded up the dishwasher then left to his civilian life.

 

Three hours later, Wolf woke up, grumpy and hungry, dragging himself to the bathroom.

 

Jacket didn't know how to cook and had ordered a pizza instead. When it arrived, Wolf was still in the bathroom. A shower didn't help with his mood.

 

He was still sulking and chewing away at his second slice.

 

Jacket washed his hands and dried them before loading two slices onto another dinner plate. He filled a glass with cold water, placing it beside the pizza, and wandered over to the bedrooms. He knocked on Hoxton's door.

 

Upon opening, the fugitive asked, "What is that?"

 

Jacket looked down at the pizza. Then back up at Hoxton.

 

Hoxton leaned out of his room, then back in and gave Jacket the strangest look. "You ordered pizza and had it delivered?" Jacket nodded in response.

 

"To the supposed safe house?"

 

That'd. That'd explain the tone of voice.

 

He shrugged. "What the hell," Hoxton muttered, anger fading. He took the plate. "I'm not the one who's going to have to deal with Dallas later—" Jacket slapped a hand onto the door as Hoxton began to shut it. He gave him a stern look.

 

"Well, I'm not going to tell him," Hoxton protested. "You think I want to subject myself to hearing him go through another discipline session?" He looked him over. "Besides, he won't go too hard on the new guy." Jacket relaxed his hold and gave him a look of understanding.

 

"You, too, mate," Hoxton said, shutting the door. "Thanks."

 

\--

 

It was evening when Jacket arrived back at the safe house. He was slowly, but surely moving most of his belongings to his new spacious room. Wolf appeared to be downstairs and, by the sound of gunfire, he was probably in the firing range.

 

Jacket packed away his clothes before going downstairs to see what the Swede was up to. It was quiet now. He paused to look at the many blinking screens in the entryway before searching for the firing range.

 

Surprised, he found Hoxton in the middle of hanging up his rifle on the display rack.

 

"Hey," Hoxton said, words dipped in his accent. "You're back. Wolf was just complaining about how bored he was." He suddenly frowned. "Do you not realize how fucking creepy that your staring is? Or am I the only one in Payday that is bothered at all?" Jacket searched his face. His expression was sharp and solid, unwaveringly so. Jacket looked down. His hands were shaking, fingers curling and uncurling. He watched as Hoxton hastily stuffed them in the pockets of his jeans, hiding them from view. Jacket whipped his eyes back up to his face as he spoke again, "Never mind." He turned to leave, warily eyeing the blond as he did so.

 

Jacket mentally cursed.

 

He made a move to grab at Hoxton's arm, who jerked away and backed up against the wall.

 

"Don't," he hissed, eyes wide. Alarmed, Jacket reeled back, raising both hands, palms facing him in surrender.

 

The stood five feet away from each other, both leaning to opposite sides, eyes locked together. Wary to the maximum.

 

Hoxton began to take a step back, away from him. Jacket shook his head frantically, trying to catch his attention, trying to stop him.

 

Finally, "I don't know what you want," Hoxton whispered, frozen against the wall. The lightbulb hanging between them lit the creases of his burns, deepening the gnarls and whorls. His brows were knitted together, drawn down to his eyes. He looked frustrated and on guard, the anxiety breaking through his cold gaze.

 

Jacket stopped and stared, unsure of how to deal with the situation on hand.

 

This was the third time he saw the look in Hoxton's eyes; the icy fear that froze his entire being, it was back and chilled the room. For a second, Jacket wondered if anyone else had seen Hoxton with that expression.

 

Jacket reached into his pockets, fumbling for his tape recorder. He rewound the tape and played, " _I'm sorry_." He clicked stop and watched Hoxton.

 

"Right," Hoxton said, distracted.

 

He played it again. " _I'm sorry_." And again. " _I'm sorry_." For a total of three times.

 

The repetition must have jolted Hoxton awake, his face clearing up as he blinked. "Right," he repeated. Jacket was none too sure about him getting the message.

 

Hoxton began again to slowly back the rest of his way out of the room.

 

Jacket let him go.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos! Hope all of you are having as much fun reading this as I am reading your comments on it. Zjol.


	3. Hard Time

Wolf happily jumped back into his own bed. He stretched out, glad for the ample room. Hoxton watched him, amused, as he leaned against the doorway. 

His expression became less amused and more perturbed as Wolf began to roll himself in the blankets. He looked to be rolled up pretty tightly. Hoxton walked over and began to peel away the layers, afraid for Wolf's suffocation. 

"Hoxton, I'm a burrito," Wolf said, breathless as the sheets were stripped away from his face. 

"No, you're a coffin," Hoxton said, grunting with effort. He tugged at the covers. "Really, Wolf, get out of there."

Wolf squirmed for a bit, the blankets still firmly bound and pinned under him. He laid his head back, watching as Hoxton tried to free him. 

"I'm glad you're back," Wolf whispered. Hoxton stopped, but didn't look at him. 

He resumed. "Was never going to be gone for long, Wolf," he murmured. "Dallas would have sent someone for me. And he did."

Wolf scrunched his face up in thought. "No, he didn't."

Now Hoxton looked at him. "Jacket?"

"No, I don't think Dallas ever told him to get you."

"To kidnap me," Hoxton corrected. Then he straightened up as the rest of Wolf's sentence was processed. "Wait. Dallas didn't?"

Wolf shook his head. Then suddenly he looked bashful. 

"Uh-oh," he said quietly, pulling himself back into the coiled sheets. 

Hoxton glowered at him. "What is it, Wolf?"

"I think, just maybe," he began cautiously. "Maybe he did because I told him to."

"You told him to break into my house and beat me into submission so he can drag me here?"

"I didn't say that, or anything like it," Wolf whispered quickly. "I just said that I missed you."

Hoxton pulled away, scowling. "You shouldn't have said anything to that maniac."

"He apologized, didn't he?" Wolf asked hopefully. 

Hoxton softened. "I guess he did."

"He did."

"Yes, Wolf, we've established that."

There was a period of silence as Hoxton wrestled Wolf free from the sheets. He returned to his own bed after that and sat on it, picking at the threads gently. Wolf kicked the blankets to the side and turned his head to the side, facing Hoxton. 

"Were you mad at me? Are you still mad?"

"Always and forever, Wolf." When met with pitiful quiet, Hoxton inhaled deeply through his nose and continued, "No, I'm not."

He continued picking at the small stitches. Wolf looked up at the ceiling. "Jacket scares you." 

"He'd scare you, too, if you woke up in the middle of the night with him at the foot of your bed."

Wolf was still facing the ceiling with a distant look in his eyes. "Don't do that. You know what I had meant," Wolf murmured. 

He felt the smack of coarse fabric and he jerked up, Hoxton's pillow falling to his lap. 

"Stop talking in riddles, Wolf," Hoxton snapped. 

"You stop talking in riddles," Wolf said, equally irked, punctuating the last word as he tossed the pillow back. 

The fugitive had the most incredulous face on, his mouth opening and shutting, words unable to be manufactured and said. He shut his eyes and brought his hands up, shaking his head.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Wolf scoffed. He looked like he was going to say something else as he leaned forwards. 

"This conversation is over," Hoxton seethed, putting an end to their talk. He jerked his own blankets up and slammed his pillow down. "Go to sleep, Wolf."

Hoxton wrapped the blanket over his shoulder as he laid down on his side, facing away from his roommate. There was grainy noiselessness as Wolf stayed seated on his own bed, at least that's what Hoxton could tell through his hearing. There was rustling of cotton sheets, dry in the air, then the soft footsteps of Wolf. Hoxton heard the click of the light switch and the room fell into a blue grey hue, the only sliver of warm light peeking from under the door. Then more footsteps and sounds of Wolf settling into his own bed. Then Hoxton allowed himself to fully relax. 

At least Wolf still listened to him. 

He was starting to feel the fuzzy blackness nip at the edges of his mind, lulling him to sleep, when he caught a slice of sound. Wolf was whispering to him. 

"...don't need it right now, but I'm here and you can tell me stuff and I won't tell nobody," Wolf mumbled, his Swedish accent thick in his low voice. "I promise."

'Moron,' Hoxton thought. He kept his mouth shut. He figured he'd just let Wolf believe he was asleep. It must have worked because the technician fell silent again, his breathing evening out and becoming slower. 

Hoxton forced himself to get comfortable again, inviting the sleep to take him. Before he felt himself slip away, he thought he heard Wolf murmur some more. 

"...can tell me what they did."

\--

Hoxton sat by the island, quivering fingers pressed against a mug of hot tea. The safe house was void of everyone but Jacket and Wolf, two people he really didn't want to be around. He thought of returning back to his other abode, but the risk of being forced back stopped the thoughts from turning into plans. It was too early in the morning for him to be up. It was a time when normal suckers woke up to work their office jobs of nine to five, not people like him. People who were rolling in dough.

The sound of a door opening startled him. He kept his head directed at the kitchen, refusing to acknowledge whoever just came out. He heard footsteps near him and they were a different pattern from Wolf's. 

Fuck. It was Jacket. 

Hoxton pretended to be reading tea leaves or some shit, not looking up from his tinted drink. Jacket opened up the fridge and spent some time silently peering into it. Then he closed it.

Hoxton heard the clink of porcelain and liquid being poured. Finally he looked up. 

Jacket's back was to him as he prepared his own breakfast at one of the counters. The corner of a box of cornflakes peeked out from behind him. Jacket turned around and, internally cursing, Hoxton met his gaze. 

"'Morning," he said, voice still raspy from sleep. Jacket nodded, leaning against the counter, bowl and spoon in hand. He ate methodically and slowly with even spoonfuls. 

Hoxton looked back down at his tea. Should he leave? Go down to the basement? Pretend to be doing some productive? He looked up again. Jacket had taken a seat across from him, busy pouring another bowl of cereal. He set the box down and began working away at his meal. The crunch of cornflakes unsettled Hoxton. He had almost expected no sound was ever to be made by that mouth. Jacket gave him a weird look. 

Shit. He must have caught him staring at his mouth. Or glaring. Whatever the fuck his expression was. But Jacket didn't seem to be too concerned with that. Instead, he gestured, with a tilt of his head, at Hoxton's hands that still trembled against the heat of the tea in the mug. 

Hoxton pulled his hands back and off the counter. "Shut up," he muttered. 

They sat through the rest of breakfast in silence, save the crunching and cereal, as Hoxton's eyes avoided him. A creak of a door opening and lured his eyes over. As Wolf stumbled out of the bedroom, yawning, and still looking like he was asleep, Jacket had gotten up and brought out another bowl and spoon and set it out on the island. Wolf sat down as Jacket brought out the milk. 

The technician looked inert and enervated, his eyes drooping as he rubbed at them. 

"Jesus, Wolf," Hoxton breathed. "You gonna make Jacket feed you, too?"

He must have been too lethargic to have heard, because Jacket already began pouring the milk over the dry cereal. Wolf muttered a string of syllables that Hoxton could only guess it was a "thank you" before slowly stirring the spoon into his breakfast. 

Hoxton rolled his eyes before catching a glimpse of Jacket's expression. The blond was looking at Wolf with a softness to his face that unsettled the him further. He excused himself (Since when did he feel the need to excuse himself?) and quickly made his way to the bathroom. 

\--

After a splash of cold water to wake himself up, Hoxton returned to the kitchen. Shaking hands in his pockets. Wolf was resting his head beside his empty bowl as Jacket was making two cups of joe at the coffee machine. Hoxton watched as Jacket leaned over Wolf, gently nudging him with an elbow before setting a striped mug by his nose. 

Wolf turned his head upwards, a lazy smile on his face and Jacket. Jacket had one of those looks again. The corner of his mouth was perked slightly, his eyes crinkled, just barely, a simple and marginal movement of his facial features echoing loudly compared to his usual fixed detachment. They were looking at each other for too long and it made Hoxton's stomach churn. He needed a smoke. 

He turned away too quickly and stumbled against the edge of a couch. In the back of his mind, he had hoped that maybe Wolf had at least looked around to see him go. In the forefront, he knew that Wolf had been too busy to notice.

\-- 

His hands fumbled with the box. He nearly dropped it as he pulled a cigarette out. With shaking hands, he managed to get it lit and he stood alone in the backyard, filling his lungs with familiar fumes, until it replaced the discomfort in his chest with more manageable discomfort. He coughed and inhaled again. 

He finished and crushed it under his shoe and pulled out another. 

The haze of the smoke blurred his vision and he waved an impatient hand through it, trying to clear his view. The sun was out and highlighted the particles in the air as they whirled away from his hand. 

Fuck. It was too sunny. 

Fuck this happy-go-lucky, golden fucking sunlight. 

Fuck. 

He dropped the stubby cigarette from his hands and ground it into the dusty yard. He pulled out another. 

\--

They wanted to watch a movie. They fucking wanted to watch a movie. 

Hoxton scowled as he leaned against the couch. "Pulp Fiction. It's a good movie. A good classic," Wolf whined. "And it's on Netflix. Come on, Hoxtatron, it'll be fun." 

Jacket sat like a statue on the couch, uninterested in their banter. Hoxton deepened his scowl. 

"We can make popcorn," Wolf added, turning his attention back to him. 

"I don't want to watch a fucking movie, Wolf," Hoxton snapped, hands clenched in his pockets. "I'm going to bed."

Wolf didn't look like he was going to back off. He looked incredibly indignant as he opened his mouth to argue some more. 

"Wolf." Squeak. Click. He turned around. Hoxton watched the minute changes on Jacket's face from behind Wolf. If he had blinked, he would have missed it all. 

Wolf relaxed to a sulking hunch. "Okay, good night," he muttered, and like a chastised child, he climbed onto the couch, a small pout on his face. Part of Hoxton was glad to get away without a fuss, the other part found itself missing Wolf's nagging already. 

\--

It was the middle of the night. He was barely awake as he heard the click of the bedroom door opening and shutting, the soft footsteps, then the fluff of blankets. He fell back asleep to the Wolf's eventual wispy snores. 

\--

Dallas and Houston had dropped by earlier that day to give them the deets on their next heist. "Now I know it's more than a few weeks away," he had said. "But I want us to be thoroughly and fully prepared." Then he left to tend to his day job. Houston had given Hoxton a wary look before he had followed his brother out. 

By evening Hoxton had found out it was another fucking movie night. But he figured, what other things can a bunch of technically unemployed bachelors do? 

Wolf had picked up some take-out and the smell of vinegar and rice intrigued Hoxton. He decided to bite and stick around for the movie. He lounged on the armchair, a plate balanced on one hand, a pair of bamboo chopsticks in the other. An opened bottle of beer sat by his corner of the coffee table. Jacket and Wolf were sprawled on the couch, sinking into the depths of the plushness. 

It was yet another gory American film. Hoxton finished his plate and got up to get more from the platters on the table. As he turned around, he found himself facing a relaxed Wolf laying down comfortably across the seat cushions, his head resting on Jacket's lap. Both of them were completely immersed in the movie, neither of them taking notice of Hoxton's rigid stature scowling at them. An insult sat on the tip of his tongue, but he knew better than to spark a conversation about it. It's 2015 after all. 

Stomach churning (probably the raw fish), mind swimming (the raw fish?), and the alien sense of tightness in his chest, he took a step back and clambered away, intending to light another cigarette, but made a switch midway and barely made it to the toilet. He fell to his knees on the shiny new tiles, fingers gripping the porcelain for stability. He retched loudly and pathetically, heaving into the bowl. Fuck. This. Shit. He didn't know how long he had his head buried in the fucking john as his mind whirled nauseatingly, his sense of time lost. He felt it go up again and he threw up dryly. Coughing and sputtering, he made a move to get up and off the floor. Before his knees could make it off the tiles, he felt the push to vomit again. He keeled over and heaved and heaved. 

Finally, he found himself resting against the toilet, gasping for a breath before his airways were forced shut once more as he threw up nothing, his body gagging on itself. Shit. He squeezed his eyes shut, images flooding back to him painfully before warm hands took hold of his shoulders and distant talking buried his mind, dissolving the unwelcome thoughts. Hoxton tried to look up, but that made his head swim harder, kicking at his temples and he groaned, pressing his forehead against the cool of porcelain. 

Hoxton stared at a glass of water that had been pushed into view and he took it and drank it gratefully, the cold water numbing its way down as it washed away the bitter taste of bile. He phased in and out of clear consciousness after that and soon found himself tucked into a bed, limbs limp and unmoving.

\--

He opened his eyes. It was still dark, the lamp on the side table dimmed to a dark orange glow. He began to sit up as warm hands appeared to forced him down again. Panic spiked in him before he saw whose hands they were. Wolf crept into view with deplorable worry in his eyes. "Don't get up, you'll puke again."

Hoxton sat up anyways, Wolf's hands falling back. He pressed the heel of his hand onto his eye as he tried to recall the events leading up to the present. 

"I'm not gonna fucking vomit, Wolf." The Swede didn't look like he believed him, the same pitiful look on his face. 

Hoxton squeezed his eyes shut and tried to wait for the sleep to drain from his body. There was silence, nice silence, and he just sat, eyes closed, as racked his mind for bits and pieces of what had happened. He was in the process of stringing them together before Wolf spoke up,

"I'm sorry."

"Hm?" Hoxton responded automatically, distracted. 

"Didn't know you couldn't eat sushi or I wouldn't have ordered it."

Shit. Sushi. Movie night. Wolf and Jacket being all up on each other on the fucking couch. He made a move to to get off the bed, but he was uncoordinated and stumbled with Wolf catching his arm. He froze, mentally battling between shrugging off his hand and leaving it there for the time being. 

He looked Wolf in the eyes. "I'm fine." 

"You're fine," Wolf echoed, a frown on his face. 

Hoxton pulled his arm away. "Really." He looked away, but still felt the burn of Wolf's stare. He, in turn, stared at the wall in front of him, hoping the Swede take the hint and piss off, but this was Wolf he was talking about here. He finally looked him in the eyes. Again. 

"What?" he exasperated. 

Wolf looked hesitant. "You said some stuff in your sleep."

Hoxton didn't feel like he had the necessary training to deal with this. "You were listening to me sleep talk?" Wolf grew visibly embarrassed. 

Fuck. "What did I say, Wolf?"

Wolf began picking at Hoxton's sheets, avoiding any and all eye contact. "Nothing," he mumbled. "Probably wasn't important."

"That isn't very reassuring."

Wolf shrugged. Jacket appeared by the open doorway and gave Hoxton a long look which he could only constitute as a greeting of some sort before turning to face Wolf with the same expression. He was wearing a plain t-shirt and a pair of shorts, looking like he had just got up from bed. 

Hoxton either misread the signals or maybe he had missed the tiny fluctuations, but Wolf seemed to have caught a different message because he nodded solemnly. Jacket tilted his head, eyes narrowing a fraction and Wolf responded with a nod and shrug combo. It was a bizarre display and Hoxton couldn't help but feel a bit left out. They were having a conversation right in front of him in a foreign ass language. 

"Hello? Translation?" he asked aloud.

Wolf turned to him, as if earnestly surprised and confused by the request. "Er, he was asking whether if it was the raw fish that had made you sick," Wolf replied as Jacket left the room wordlessly. 

Hoxton scowled, "Don't lie to me, Wolf."

He appeared to be alarmed. "I'm not!" His voice was raising in pitch, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. He looked so convincingly indignant that Hoxton wavered on his stance on the issue. He settled on deepening his glare. 

"That wasn't what he had asked."

"It was!" 

A beat passed as Hoxton studied him. "Wolf, I can tell when you're lying."

Wolf scrunched his face up as a response. 

Hoxton snorted, he really hated when the Swede was stubborn. Especially towards him. It made communication much more difficult than it had to be. It also forced him to be the more mature of the two and he really didn't want that responsibility. At all. This was a terrible start to his day. 

He decided to let it go. 

"What's for breakfast?" he asked, scratching his head. Wolf hesitated before shrugging. 

"I guess cereal, then."

Hoxton rose and brushed past him, bare feet moving down the polished wood floors. He wasn't sure of how he felt about the last few days, but it wasn't in his nature to doubt. He remembered very little. Or wanted to remember very little. The days were beginning to meld together, blurry shapes and hues and set routines. He brushed a few stray strands of hair off his face and searched through the cupboards. Just colourful boxes of that sugary crap Wolf liked to engorge himself on. He picked the least harmful looking one, the American cereal with the tiger, and poured the flakes into a bowl. 

He opted to sit down on the couch and turned Netflix on from one of the gaming consoles that no one used. You know. Except for Netflix. 

He was sitting with an empty bowl in his hands for about an hour now and realized, for the first time, there hadn't been any interruptions, big or small. It was unusual. Especially in a shared household with Wolf. He wondered briefly if he should worry at all as he dumped his dishes into the washer. He stood in the kitchen, tentative, a finger rubbing at his stubbly chin. 

Fuck it. Wolf was a grown ass man, he didn't need supervision. But the other part of him protested against that, arguing that it wasn't just for Wolf's own safety, it was for everyone's around him. He was an unmarked time bomb, a kernel waiting to pop. Anything could mean everything to Wolf. Hoxton grumbled to himself. Since when was he the appointed caretaker?

He clambered down the stairs, half-expecting the basement to be engulfed in flames, but all he found was emptiness. And a low voice. He followed the mumbling to the back room where the ratty old couch was still residing alongside the pinned maps and plan outs. Jacket and Wolf looked up at him, suddenly hushed. Hoxton's eyes darted back and forth between them. 

"Come sit." Wolf was the first to break the ice. It was a 50/50 kind of thing since Jacket wasn't one to talk, so it was unsurprising. Hoxton had no idea as to what made him stay, but he did, seating himself on the old couch. It was lumpy; too soft in some places, not soft enough in others. He shifted his weight to try and get that sweet spot of comfort. None to be found. 

"Jacket said it wasn't the sushi that made you sick."

Wow. He really wasn't beating around the bush. He came right out and said that. And with a slight accusatory undertone. Hoxton didn't appear to be alone in that thought; Jacket was staring at the back of Wolf's head, looking rather appalled that he had been mentioned. It was an intense stare, looking like it would sear through flesh and bone, but the Swede didn't take note. Not for a second. 

"Hoxton." Jesus. What next? What could he say next that wouldn't completely destroy this already collapsing conversation? "Are you okay?"

Wolf looked genuinely worried. It was a strange emotion on him. He was usually a creature devoid of human expressions. Just anger and inappropriate happiness. Compassion, well, compassion wasn't on his list. The sudden display disturbed Hoxton to the core and he felt that something wrong, something really wrong, had to have happened for Wolf to be able to present such a face. He felt his breathing quicken, heart pounding along. He only hoped that they wouldn't be able to notice. 

"Yes, Wolf." Hoxton managed to get an eye roll in as well. "Couldn't be better." He was beginning to feel weak in the knees, glad that he had decided to sit on the lumpy, old couch. He folded his hands together as Wolf tilted his head. 

He still had that strangely earnest uneasy expression on. It was beginning to eat at Hoxton's patience and he could feel frustration starting to bubble. "Hoxtatron." Wolf's eyes surveyed him, darting up and down his body. "I'm worried."

That's a first. 

"Don't be. Guess I'm not a sushi person." Hoxton really wanted to leave. He stood up, praying that he didn't waver too much, before Wolf took hold of the hem of his sleeve. Jacket stiffened, feeling the tenseness in the air. 

Wolf didn't turn to face him. "It's okay," he murmured. Jacket stared at the back of Wolf's head before flicking his eyes up at Hoxton. 

"It's okay," Wolf repeated as soon as the blond was out of the room. Hoxton stayed standing, arm held awkwardly out thanks to Wolf's iron grip. 

"Wolf," he warned. 

"Hoxton, there is some shit going on with you and I want to help."

"You can start by letting go of my sleeve."

"You'll just walk away."

"You're right. Because this is bullshit."

"No. Promise you won't walk."

Hoxton chewed the inside of his cheek. He didn't want to stay. At all. "I'll give you two minutes."

Wolf shook his head. "No." He strengthened his hold, inching more fabric into his grip. 

"Wolf, you're wrinkling the hell out of my shirt."

"Stay. Talk or just listen. Please."

Hoxton searched Wolf's eyes, seeing nothing but clear honesty. He made a show of sighing and took a seat on the couch.

Wolf waited for a few seconds, judging to see if Hoxton would bolt as soon as he would relinquish his grip. He eventually let go, seemingly satisfied with his decision. Hoxton briefly entertained the idea of turning around and running to his secondary hide out. Wolf was considerably smaller than him with shorter legs, he probably wouldn't be able to keep up. But Hoxton suddenly remembered who was just outside the room. 

Fucking Jacket. 

Wolf would probably order that fucking manservant to hunt him down again. Hoxton felt his knees begin to buckle at the thought of trying to fight Jacket off once more, quickly sitting down to avoid shaking in front of Wolf. Wolf didn't need to see that. He needn't know. 

His eyes were wrinkled in worry, grey eyes clouded. His light brows were bunched together and his mouth was pressed into a thin line of concern. It was alien on his features. Hoxton tried to keep from letting his own worries show with a mask of steely indifference and impatience. 

"You're scared." Wolf stated it in a matter-of-fact tone of voice, the accusatory quality gone. He was just raising a fact; not an opinion, not an accusation, a theory or thought. It was pure nonfiction, or so it was told by Wolf. Hoxton forced an offended scowl, a preset insult set on his tongue, but it would not sound. He panicked when he wasn't able to say it. Try again. Again. Nothing. No words. Just stuttering and stumbling over vowels and syllables that were the ingredients to the preset. But he kept fucking it fucking it up, he was always fucking shit up. Blood pounded in his head and ears, overriding his thoughts as his frustration built and pushed against his skull, the pressure, the pounding, the pressure, the noise, fuck, the sounds of blood gushing. His hands found his way into his hair, loosening strands from his ponytail as he gripped his scalp. Blunt nails digging and scratching and Wolf was making so much noise, he was waving and he was standing up, saying something, but the pounding, too loud, the silence was too loud. The silence was too loud. 

He wanted to yell, to belt out his frustration, to crack open the world of noiselessness with a bloodcurdling scream, so he shut his eyes and opened his mouth. 

He only heard himself whimper softly and he keeled over, forehead sinking against the lumpy couch. The silence broke and sounds of Wolf speaking rolled into his hearing. 

His head hurt. 

He felt warm hands grapple at his arms and slowly pulling him up. Hoxton made no effort to sit up on his own, he was too tired, too exhausted, limply leaning on Wolf's shoulder. A gentle hand rubbed small circles on his back. 

"I'm sorry," Hoxton heard Wolf say. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Wolf's chin moved against his temple as he spoke, the stubble prickling against his clammy skin. Hoxton kept his eyes shut. 

\--

His hands trembled on his lap. 

Hoxton felt that there was no use hiding it anymore as Wolf had already seen him do a full breakdown. He was embarrassed that he had let himself come apart like that, especially in company of others. He had not wanted that to happen. At least not in this lifetime.

Wolf nudged a hot cup of tea into his hands, shifting closer to him. Jacket stood in front of them, having made and brought the tea down from upstairs, a curious look on his face as he watched. With no change in expression, he turned to leave before coming back with a blanket, gently laying it down to cover their legs. He exchanged a brief conversation with Wolf in silence. Jacket nodded once and left the room. 

Then it was just Hoxton and Wolf. Wolf and Hoxton. Like old times. The Brit still shivered with the hot mug between his hands, eyes dull and glazed over. It wasn't just Hoxton who was afraid, Wolf was, too. He was feeling the loss of his best friend, a man usually quick to quip with endless edged words and sneers, someone who used to watch out for him with a fiery temper. Now he was a shell that was slowly losing its ability to mimic the man it used to be a part of. Hoxton was suddenly fragile. Wolf was watching him fall apart and he felt useless, incredibly useless. It was scary. 

And if Dallas had seen what he had, Hoxton wouldn't be a part of Payday anymore. He would be deemed 'unreliable' to face the physical and psychological demands of the job and so forth. And it wouldn't be a hard hit to lose a single heister. It wasn't like Payday had a deficiency of criminals to call forwards. Wolf looked to the entry way. 

Hoxton was still shaking. He was angry. He was humiliated. And he was nervous. The cup was still clutched between his hands, the tremors breaking waves in his tea. Wolf was probably watching him with that grey pity, that fucking pity. He squeezed the mug, knuckles alabaster white, as he glared at the wall in front of him, too ashamed to look Wolf in the eye. He felt a touch on his head and he looked to his side, reluctantly so. Wolf was threading his fingers through his hair, pulling the remaining strands out from his hair tie. He began to comb his fingers gently through, untangling the tangles and brushing strays behind his ear. Hoxton was wary to admit it was comforting. 

He reached out and took his hair tie back. 

Wolf spoke, "You look nice with your hair down, Hoxton."

Hoxton scoffed. "That's something you'd say to a woman, Wolf." 

Wolf let that linger in the air. 

They sat in silence, both mulling over what was said and what wasn't, before Hoxton spoke up, unable to keep the disdain from staining too much of his voice, "I'm not a fag, Wolf." 

Hoxton felt himself go rigid as soon as he heard the words fall from his mouth. He chanced a glance at Wolf, heart pounding. Wolf casted his eye downwards briefly. Then they met Hoxton's. "Didn't peg you as one," he said stiffly. Hoxton bit down on the inside of his cheek, blood still racing in his veins. He wasn't entirely sure on why he felt so bothered all of a sudden. Or he didn't want to admit it. He was always quick to answer about his sexuality, always. It had become automatic. Now he felt unsure. 

Wolf stood, the blanket slipping off his knee. His features were empty, so blank that even Hoxton was having trouble piecing it all together. It reminded him of Jacket. "You need rest, Hoxtatron," Wolf said. 

"I'm not tired."

The cup of tea was lukewarm in his hands now. 

"You need rest."

Hoxton placed the mug down on a side table, pretending to consider deeply. He shook his head. "I'm fine, Wolf. Don't worry." He intended it to be laced with good humour, to break the tense air, but it came out as hollow as Wolf's expression. The Swede nodded. 

"Okay," he said. He exited the room, strides quick and even, as a weary Hoxton was left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew!


	4. Webbed

Dallas was in the next morning. He was pinning up maps and blueprints and captioned photographs, a fat dossier in hand. Houston stood close behind him, like a diligent little bodyguard, face stern and set. Chains was a lot more relaxed, humming as he browsed the kitchen. He clicked his tongue, dissatisfied.

"Guys, we've got to go get some groceries. There's like an empty carton of milk, a mouldy ass piece of—" he paused, turning the small block over in his hand "—cheddar? This is green as fuck. And an opened can of soda."

"Saving that for later, Chains," Wolf yawned, slowly making his way to the kitchen.

"What's the point, man?" Chains asked, shutting the fridge door. "The fizz is all gone by now."

Wolf shrugged, leaning against the counter as he rubbed at his eyes. "Still tastes like soda, though." Chains made a face.

Dallas waved them over, cutting their conversation short. They circled around the dining room table, heads coming together as Houston pulled out a long list. Jacket listened in his usual fashion; silent and expressionless. And Hoxton stood, drumming his fingers in his pockets, the fabric muting the tap taps.

It was going to be a regular bank heist, nothing too spectacular. It looked like Chains was going to have to break out his saw for the deposit boxes, always an exciting thing. Houston pointed at Wolf, reminding him to bring not one, but two ECM jammers, then at his older brother, to stock up on the zip ties for the whole crew, since, he noted, they were starting to run out.

It was then Dallas' turn to speak. He turned to the various items pinned up around the room. He briefly covered the security, the map, and the locations of their targets, as prescribed by Houston's list. As always, Dallas encouraged them to brush up on their aim ("and no light bulbs this time, Wolf."). Chains laid out a small document of his own research, a fuller scan of the grounds. It was a quaint and modest bank, just two tellers, four guards, and a single manager. It should be quick and easy, no room to disappoint. The cameras, though, he noted, were shielded and invincible, it was paramount that they take out the security guard. Wolf raised a hand to suggest an ECM rush. Houston shook his head sternly in response.

Dallas began to gather the papers, straightening them into a neat stack. He looked up at them, strict eyes look over each of them. "Only four guys needed for this. I'd like to see Jacket prove himself in the field." He stopped, looking down for a moment to think. "Houston and Hoxton, you guys are going to have to sit out for this one."

Houston nodded and began to take down the documents, stacking them together. Chains put his own papers together and left to his room as Wolf went to the fridge, looking for breakfast, Jacket in tow.

Dallas had watched Hoxton's features unfold to relief, and he frowned slightly, the wrinkles on his forehead becoming a bit more pronounced. He moved slowly towards Hoxton, not wanting to draw attention to them as Houston and Wolf meandered about. Dallas stopped, standing closely beside Hoxton, who stiffened in return. Hoxton turned his head and looked over at his leader.

"Jim. You okay?" Dallas stature was casual, hands stuffed in his slacks pockets, relaxed shoulders and tilted chin. His eyes and voice was another matter; both were cold and hard, a sense of threat laced underneath.

"Just glad I won't have to, y'know, run around, work a boring shift." He forced a chuckle. "Action's where it's at."

Dallas didn't look like he believed him. "Good." He turned back to his dossier and stuffed them into his briefcase, still relaxed, still casual.

Wolf was sipping at his stale soda, having watched the interaction. They looked at each other, but Wolf was the first to look away, turning to see what Jacket was making for breakfast. Hoxton pressed the knuckles of his fingers into the sides of his legs. Dallas waved his goodbye, the demands of his day job taking his attention. Chains left, too, with a bag over a shoulder. He promised to be back for dinner before doing so.

Hoxton stood awkwardly in the dining room. It seemed that everyone had gone to tend to their daily responsibilities and duties.

\--

Wolf was in Jacket's room. The blond had shown him some games to download and he was tapping through the App Store, searching them up. Jacket watched his screen for a bit before turning back to his own mobile game. They were on the floor, backs to the side of the bed, sitting on the plush rug that covered the wooden floor. It was simple and it was nice.

They lounged in their t-shirts and shorts, a comfortable temperature in the room, legs stretched out. It was blissfully relaxing; colourful games and peaceful company. Wolf looked up, still waiting for his app to finish downloading.

"We should get a cat."

Jacket frowned up at him from his phone.

"I like dogs, too." He gave it a thought. "Dogs are fun, but a cat is less work." He exchanged a look with Jacket. "It's better than picking up poop with a plastic bag! You use a scoop instead and it's mostly dried." The blond made a disgusted face, shaking his head. Wolf pouted, a little crestfallen that he didn't share the enthusiasm.

They tended to their own mobiles for a while.

Then Wolf perked up, rather aggressively, and Jacket leaned away, an alarmed look plastered on his face. "We could train it to use a toilet!" Wolf began tapping at his phone, typing something up in excitement. Jacket looked over at his screen.

Wolf scooted closer, crossing his legs to balance his phone on his knee as he played a video.

It was a cat using a toilet.

It flushed when it was done, too.

 Jacket smiled a Jacket smile; a corner of his mouth just taut. Wolf beamed at the screen, cheeks reddening as Jacket's hand took hold of his own.

 --

 Chains was back for dinner, as promised. He also arrived with groceries. He was stocking the fridge as Hoxton wandered over and stood by the island counter.

 "Lucky you," Chains said from behind the fridge door.

"What?"

"You guys are going to get a taste of my cooking tonight. It ain't just Dallas who can make a mean dish," he announced cheerfully, tying on a clean apron. Hoxton sat down, finding the merriment refreshing after spending the week with the least appealing company; a maniac and a mute maniac.

He leaned on the counter. "What's on the menu?" he asked. Chains peeked from behind the door.

"Some good shit, that's what's on the menu."

Hoxton felt himself smile, just a bit. The feeling of his mouth curling upwards was creaky, to say the least. It was like he hadn't smiled in a while. Not genuinely so, at least. He stay seated, elbows propping himself up on the counter as he watched Chains prepare the pots and pans. There was a domestic feel about this, like a white picket fence kind of domestic.

It reminded Hoxton of his childhood; not that his childhood was a functional family of four living in the suburbs with neighbourhood parties and barbecues, but from the shows and movies and books of his childhood. Always depicting home life to be so tame and tranquil, not screaming and beatings and stealing and cheating.

Come to think of it, he doubted that any of them had a normal family life growing up. He knew Chains had bounced from foster homes to foster homes, then to juvie and back. Dallas and Houston would had to have something that had eventually pushed them to a life of crime in their early 20s. Wolf had never spoken about his life before Payday and the unspoken agreement between everyone else was that they were never to ask. Ever. And as for Jacket, he was a mystery.

Hoxton fiddled with the salt and pepper shakers on the counter. Chains looked over.

"Man, you better not be loosening that shit."

Hoxton scoffed. "I'm not a child." Chains laughed heartily, the bass rumbling through his chest and throat and out to the kitchen. His smile was contagious. Hoxton felt himself wondering if this was what he was missing in the past few weeks; a normal, social human being to talk to.

Houston came up the stairs, lightly scented of gunfire and spray paint. He looked to them, squinting at a laughing Chains in an apron. "You cooking tonight?"

"Yeah, man," Chains called back. He gestured Houston to come over. "Join us, let's talk and shit. Come on." Houston took a long look at Hoxton, more than a little bit apprehensive. He approached slowly and sat a chair away from him. Hoxton, leaning on an elbow, peered at him and smirked.

"Still scared?"

Houston looked at him. "No."

Chains snorted. "Not a child, my ass."

"This bastard stole my fucking mask and my fucking name," Hoxton enunciated.

"Briefly!" Houston protested. "And what are you mad at me for? Dallas gave them to me! It wasn't like I asked specifically to take it from you."

Hoxton rolled his eyes, mouthing 'twat'. Houston sat back in disbelief. He was oddly calm after having someone call him crude names, but he was always oddly calm. And he didn't drink. Hoxton always found it a weird choice of his, but he needn't pry—just tease. Chains was chopping away at a wooden board, ignoring their banter, the clipping drum beat of the knife filling the air. He sounded like he knew what he was doing.

Hoxton was always fascinated by people who could cook. He chalked it up to having never watched anyone cook in his life—he was always shooed away from the kitchen as a child—then life as a bachelor and a criminal, well, it didn't exactly leave much room for cooking. Maybe the occasional scrambled eggs and instant ramen.

He peered over at Houston. He had his hands clasped together, resting evenly on the countertop. His nails were kept trimmed and clean, much like his hair and clothes. Houston didn't resemble a typical bank robber slash drug leader slash criminal at all, his habits more fitting for a respectable business person of sorts. He was sitting up straight as well, shoulders squared. Hoxton briefly tagged it as a military thing, but he wasn't so sure.

"Were you in the army?"

"What?" Houston turned his head. Chains took heed as well, slowing his chopping for a second.

"Were you in the army?" Hoxton repeated, a little irked.

"No."

"You got the whole haircut and posture and shit," Hoxton explained. "He gestured at him. "And that shitty no nonsense attitude."

"It's not shitty," Houston blurted bluntly, frowning. Chains chortled from the other side of the kitchen. Houston turned his head at Chains back, a little ruffled at being laughed at.

Hoxton pushed the shakers back into place. "Sure." He gave a noncommittal shrug.

"Sure," Houston repeated, stone-faced. Chains guffawed.

\--

They were watching a tv show on Netflix now, hands still glued together. Wolf and Jacket were propped up against each other as they watched the tiny screen. They couldn't complain. It wasn't really about watching the show, it was just an excuse to sit close and hold hands. But neither of them wanted to admit that. Not that they needed to.

And that's what made Wolf smile so much, to the point that his cheeks burned with strain. His heart was beating rapidly, a fast thump-thump-thump against his rib cage. His pinky twitched to the beat for a second and Jacket tore his eyes away from the phone and down at their hands. He gave Wolf a sly look, blue eyes scouring grey. And then he leaned forwards, the tip of his nose finding Wolf's. He held it there, forehead warm against Wolf's skin, the rhythm of their shallow breaths colliding. Jacket shut his eyes, savouring that moment in time.

Wolf gently pushed forwards with his nose, tilting his head back, urging him to close the distance. The excitement buzzed in his system, the beat of his blood echoing in his ears. Jacket snorted softly before kissing him. Wolf's stubble brushed against his chin, his lips tense beneath his. Jacket pulled back, searching Wolf's eyes.

"I'm okay," Wolf assured, breathless. Jacket considered it for a moment, judging the validity of his words.

He shook his head and pulled completely away, sitting back down. Looking at the floor where their hands lay, he laced them together again, apologetic. Wolf chuckled to himself, lowly and bitterly.

"Sorry," Wolf mumbled quietly. He pressed the heel of his hand to his right eye, slumping over. He was overthinking again. Jacket found Wolf had been doing a lot of that lately. He was confused as to why Wolf ever needed to worry or to ever be distressed; he had all the money he needed, a stable home, friends, and a fulfilling career, albeit an illegal one. He was well-paid, well-compensated, and, for the most part, protected. Sure, there were occupational hazards; like getting shot, or shredded by shrapnel, maybe tasered every now and then, and the occasional bump and scratch. Possibly even getting caught and sent to jail for a couple of years. But payout was great, nonetheless.

He supposed it wasn't just about the money when it came to Wolf. Jacket gave his hand a quick squeeze. It wasn't about the money for both of them, really. It was about the thrill of the job and of the danger and of the power. The adrenaline rush and the satisfaction of a plan being played out successfully was addictive, its effects gratifying. And maybe, just maybe, it was also about the company of like-minded people. A team built up of dependable and trustworthy individuals working together towards the same illegal ass goal. Jacket didn't have that before.

 Sitting next to him was a forlorn Wolf, quite the alarming thing to be sitting next to after attempting to share a kiss that was intended to be exciting. Jacket, at first, believed that it had been a mistake, that maybe the attraction and affection wasn't mutual, just misread signals of platonic friendship. Maybe handholding was a Swedish thing to do amongst friends—Jacket didn't know jack shit. But after sitting next to Wolf for some time and after he had apologized, his worries about that had dissolved and was replaced by worry for Wolf's wellbeing. Emotional and psychological.

"I'm not gay," Wolf muttered quietly. Jacket wasn't sure on how to interpret that. Wolf had said it so defensively, the word gay intonated with slight distaste. Was he implying he objected to their relationship? Was he implying he didn't want people to know about their relationship? Was he implying he didn't want the relationship? Was there a relationship at all? Jacket tilted his head. Or was Wolf speaking in another context? He looked pensive, eyes wandering in thought. No, he just looked distraught and was searching. Jacket, if he had been unsure then, was more unsure now. Hesitantly, he pressed his other hand to the side of Wolf's head, behind his ear, and trailing it down to cup his jaw. He rubbed his thumb on his cheek in what he hoped was a gentle gesture. He was a hitman and now part of a criminal organization with a focus on bank robbery, but also drug trafficking; gentleness could be, at times, a difficult gesture to implicate.

Wolf laughed. He was still nervous. "You look so lost."

Jacket gave him an indignant look.

"Sorry. I've just never kissed a man before." Wolf was pensive again, like he was trying to find a memory that proved his statement wrong. He shook his head as if clearing his thoughts. "It was different. I suppose I don't really know better, having never really kissed a lot of people. Maybe a girlfriend at some point. And my wife, I guess."

Jacket sat back, taking his hands with him.

A married man shouldn't really...shouldn't really go around kissing people.

Wolf must have finally processed his own words as he straightened up, a confused expression falling onto his face. "Weird," he said, amused. "Haven't called her that since..," he paused to think. "I'm not sure." He looked to Jacket, as if expecting an answer. Jacket raised both of his hands in surrender.

Wolf hummed lowly in his throat. "I don't think she's my wife anymore."

Jacket, again, was unsure on what he had meant. He gave Wolf an imploring look to which Wolf frowned at. "I didn't kill her," he said. The he looked unsure. "She's just not my wife anymore."

Not his wife anymore. That was enough for Jacket; he supposed he didn't really care about it now. It was no longer a part of Wolf, so it wasn't a part of him. It was all meaningless to him, just old stories—and who didn't have old stories? Jacket mulled it over silently, the only indication of the thoughts was through the slight tensing of his brows.

Everyone has a past and though she had a chance before Jacket, it was his turn now. It was not so bad of thing, being second or third or even the tenth. He raised a hand and trailed a pinky along the side of Wolf's hand, gently brushing his skin from the wrist to the tip of his finger. He was a part of Wolf now and living in the present was no punishment. Pasts are pasts. Jacket's mouth quirked up, eliciting a barely readable smile.

Wolf's concerned expression melted into a relieved grin as he looked down at their touching hands. He took some time to press their palms together, the warmth emanating directly into each other. Jacket watched him, a small twinkle of adoration in his eyes. Wolf folded their fingers, all points of contact buzzing in excitement.

"It was different," he continued, referring back to their kiss. "But it wasn't bad." Jacket snorted, bringing Wolf's hand to his mouth, kissing the knuckles slowly. The Swede watched, enthralled, and he swallowed. "Maybe we should try again," he suggested, none too shyly.

So they did. And again. And again.

\--

It was the day of the heist, all of them wearing lightweight ballistic vests underneath their jackets, as adamantly prescribed by Dallas. "Just in case," he had said. He was actually quite aggressive about it.

They all had the proper briefing, the proper instructions, and the proper experience. It was going to be a piece of cake. No worries there. Jacket hooked a pinky to Wolf's when Chains and Dallas had turned away and Wolf's cheeks reddened, just a small flush, like a pinkish rose blooming across his face. Jacket found it endearing. He let go when Dallas came around back again to give them the signal.

They went in, the ECM whining in protest. Four guards went down amidst the screams. Jacket felt his stomach knot up as he zip tied the civilians, the loud rip of plastic cutting his hearing. He knew it was for the security of the heist, that the innocents would have to endure the terror of masked gunmen, arms bound behind them. This wasn't right, this wasn't right, this wasn't right at all. No innocents should ever have to—

Pop.

The unmistakeable sound of a silenced gun shot echoed through the bank. Jacket felt time slow painfully as he whipped his eyes up to the source, the inhale of his breath was wispy and rattled feebly in his chicken mask.

Wolf was standing in the hallway, his pistol pointed into the teller room. His body was relaxed, a measured calm, as he lowered his arm. He was too casual about it, his white and blood red mask hiding his expression, but Jacket was sure it matched his posture. Dallas and Chains had looked up briefly, but disregarded it without a second thought. It seemed to be a routine part of the job—no outrage, no questions. Nothing. Wolf walked in and bent down behind the counter, seemingly tying the other teller, the walls and shelves stained a wet crimson behind them.

Jacket clenched his jaw and forced himself to look away. He was suddenly too glad for the mask. He shut his eyes momentarily, to get a breath and to regain that automatic sense of repose. It was difficult, the turbulent waves of concerns pushing up against the blanket of blank serenity. Only long enough to finish the job, only long enough to finish the job. He finished tying up the hostages and rejoined the others as they drilled the vault open.

Fifteen minutes and thirty two seconds later, they were all crammed in the back of the van, jostled by the bags of loot. Jacket sat quietly, his breath a forced even rate, as he avoided looking at his colleagues. Especially Wolf. He

was giddy again, happy, spilling over the top with excitement. Emotions tore through him easily, Jacket mused. Wolf had a tendency to jump up, even when down or sad beforehand, though at the price of malice. Adrenaline running was through his veins now. He was like a child.

There was prideful contentment on Dallas' face as he watched Wolf celebrate in his corner of the van. It was cold fondness, like he wanted to be proud, but the professionalism required on the job screened it, dimming the brightness of his near fatherly tenderness. Jacket felt his stomach tighten.

He must have show a sign that he was off or uncomfortable, because Dallas suddenly turned to look at him, with the same pride in his eyes. "Jacket. It's okay, you can take your mask off," Dallas said, looking over at him. He was pleased with Jacket's performance. More than pleased—he was impressed. Jacket regarded Dallas for more than deemed appropriate before reluctantly pulling off the chicken mask. Jacket's face was stern and tense. He was aware he looked like a cold blooded murderer, ready to shoot up everyone in the van. It was ironic.

They stopped at the safehouse and piled the bags in the garage, their destination to await Bain. He was going to handle it from here; fence and the delivery of the hard earned cash. Just routine.

Jacket hung up his guns and weapons, the chicken mask barely holding onto its hook. He showered. He went to his room. He sat.

He sat for some time in his empty room, muffled sounds of living seeping through the wooden door. And during that period of sitting, he tried not to think. It wasn't allowed. He didn't need to think. What was done was done. Thinking wouldn't reverse that. Nothing would.

An innocent civilian died today.

An innocent civilian was murdered today.

It didn't have to end up that way, but it did and Jacket felt a small wave of nausea pass through the back of his mind when he let it wander to that memory again. The wave wasn't enough to disturb him in any way or form, just enough to colour his mood a beige rage; anger, but desaturated nearly beyond recognition through training and self-discipline. He heard Wolf knock and wait before finally peeking in from behind the door when he received no answer. He was smiling from ear to ear. He bounded into the room and made himself comfortable on the bed, nudging Jacket with his elbow.

"Dallas was really happy," Wolf whispered, excitement radiating from his voice." He said you were really good today." Jacket nodded numbly. Wolf watched him, eyes studying Jacket carefully, smile slipping off his face as he did so. "What's wrong?"

Jacket can't let himself be mad now. He looked straight ahead, concentrating at the wall across from him. He needed to breathe. He needed to calm the fuck down.

Wolf killed a civilian today. A human being who did nothing to deserve it.

He seemed to be reading his mind. "He reached for the panic button, Jacket," Wolf said coldly. Jacket turned to regard him, somewhat unprepared for Wolf's change in demeanour. "He was going to get us killed." But that didn't mean Wolf had to kill him.

Despite that, Jacket nodded again, numb and slow, reaching over to hold the back of Wolf's head. He rubbed a thumb against the softness of his closely cropped hair, pulling him close and kissing him, all a little too rough. Wolf struggled against his chest, twisting his head away.

"You're still upset." Wolf inched back against the bedpost. Jacket shook his head now, a little miffed that Wolf had pushed him off. Wolf looked a bit torn, silent in thought. The corner of his mouth was taut in concentration, eyes searching Jacket's face for any and all signs of anger. He was definitely still upset about the incident from what Wolf had gathered. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second as he finalized his thoughts. He did not want to upset him further. Not at all. Wolf didn't need that today. He didn't struggle again when Jacket pulled him back in.

Jacket pressed their mouths together. He held that position before leaning back, dissatisfaction written all over his features. He needed to forget. Wolf could help with that, but it was like he was choosing not to.

He regarded Jacket, an empty look on his face.

"Sorry," he said. It sounded insincere, like he wasn't sure on why he was apologizing. Jacket made a small growl from the back of his throat, impatient. He didn't want to think about it now and he didn't really want to care. He moved forwards again, head nearly colliding painfully with Wolf's, as he kissed away at him—his ear, the skin behind it, trailing down along his jaw towards his neck. Wolf shrank away from him.

Jacket pulled down Wolf's blazer hastily before grappling at his necktie and dress shirt. He was too rough and his fingers threatened to tear and stretch the fabric. He still had his face buried in the crook of Wolf's neck, sloppily pressing his mouth against the skin, with hints of teeth. He managed to loosen the tie without looking, hands beginning to work on the round buttons of his dress shirt.

He gripped Wolf's hips, bruising fingers pulling him close and forcing him towards the bed, feet stumbling all over each other. It was chaotic and Jacket was nibbling at his neck now, all together a little too hard. Hands still tightly grasping his hips, Wolf was pushed down on the sheets and he whined in protest. He lifted a knee and trying to pry Jacket away from him. The blond shoved his leg off to his side, grunting with effort as he slid his weight on top of him.

"Jacket," Wolf started warningly. He was beginning to feel the first wave of panic now.

He bit Wolf's neck, hard. It stung and Wolf's eyes began to water as he bit down on his own lip to distract from it. He pushed against Jacket with the heel of his hand, eyes shut.

"Jacket." He repeated, the tone more pleading than the last.

Wolf felt trapped.

It was all too much like what had happened back home in Sweden, what had been the catalyst behind his unprecedented looseness and spontaneity as part of Payday. It was all too familiar and it made him uncomfortable, unsettled, and uneasy. Backed into a corner, with little to no options; just the heat of his temper and the buzz in his brain, there was not much for him to do, to feel. Just the endless graininess of stress and the fear of letting someone, anyone, everyone, down. He was cornered again, mind racing, then slowing to a sluggish pace, then too fast, too fast, then far too slow. He heard distant strangled noises—all too familiar. His own vocal cords were betraying him, tangling and stumbling on each other, his tongue refusing to mould the words to the shapes in his thoughts; teeth, not clipping enough, clipping too much, clipping sloppily. He felt his voice give to the stress, cracking under the weight of his mind as he felt Jacket freeze above him.

Jacket was breathing heavily and Wolf could hear the restraint he was putting out to control his breath. He peeled himself off of the Swede, teetering over to lean against the doorframe.

Wolf let himself breathe. Mind clear, voice unhindered. He swallowed.

"I don't like when you're upset," he said truthfully, as he sat up on the bed. He pressed his back to the wall, leaning his head back as he looked at the blond. Jacket, already having calmed his breath, looked up, eyes soft. Wolf's neck was covered in bright red patches and teeth marks. It looked painful. Jacket averted his attention to the wall beside him and buried his fist in it, his knuckles tearing in contact. He pulled back and punched again. And again. Until his knuckles were a pulpy, red mess. Wolf watched silently. "Don't do that," he said quietly. Jacket exhaled, seemingly exasperated with himself, as his eyes darted around the room to look at anything that wasn't Wolf. He stood still, though his shoulders were tight, as if he was debating on whether to leave or not. Wolf extended both his arms.

He kept them raised for some time. Jacket finally looked. "Come on," Wolf said, voice expectant. "You didn't hurt me." He winced as he shifted his hip. "Maybe a little." Jacket felt shame rise even higher. He turned away. He let himself take out his anger on someone else. A killer. Who happened to be Wolf. Jacket was angry about a layer of things; someone who harms innocents shouldn't be left well and Wolf shouldn't ever be harmed, because, like he said, it was for the security of the job. It was for the good. Was it?

There was a discrepancy in his morals and it disturbed him deeply. He knew Payday wasn't the cleanest when it came down to it, but he was convinced he was able to work it out by himself. All by himself. He listened closely to fabric shift and he looked over, curious.

Wolf had his slacks pulled to his knees and he was examining his hips as his hands tugged down his boxer briefs. There were bright marks on his skin there, too. They didn't appear to be bruised too badly. Wolf looked up at him, grimacing. "Yeah, this is kind of bad."

Wordlessly, Jacket gestured to his neck.

Wolf frowned. He pressed a palm to the skin, fingers splayed as if trying to find the bruises and bites. He thumbed the ridges of teeth marks. Then he shrugged. "Just love bites. Literally love bites." He looked pleased with himself for coming up with that.

Jacket felt his insides lurch. They weren't made with love or by love. It was anger and the need to hurt someone else. It was bad as well as shameful. Wolf pulled his pants up as he struggled to rise from the bed, limping his way to Jacket, each second step causing him to wince. Jacket hoped he didn't break anything.

"You okay now?"

No. Jacket nodded. He rested his forehead against Wolf's, hands gentle on his sides.

"I don't like when you're upset," Wolf repeated, a grimace on his features. Jacket shook his head. Of course he didn't, it was fair. He placed his hands by Wolf's collarbone, fingers poised to unbutton. Wolf hummed in approval and raised his arms as Jacket slid his blazer and white button up off. He tossed them onto the dresser.

Wolf was soft in curves, just a bit on the heavy side, his skin starkly pale against the splatter of bruises. Jacket leaned down and kissed them, apologetic, Wolf's prickly chin tickling his cheek. Jacket was calmer now, feeling the familiar rhythm of their routine. He buried his nose in Wolf's facial hair, remorse flooding his heart. It was uncomfortable and almost painful, but he felt he deserved it, savouring every last bit.

Wolf pulled off his jacket and shirt and they sat back, looking over at each other. Both were so different in stature and tone and build; there was a lot to see. And they kissed, because kissing was nice, and it was gentle, and it was comforting. It was a strange one, the routine they had. Wolf seemed to be receptive to all his touches, despite being the receiver for the most part. He looked gruff, his groomed facial hair making him appear more mature than he was. Jacket, on the other hand, was clean shaven—he couldn't grow a beard to save his life—and the clothes he wore made him look younger than he was.

He pulled away and worked on Wolf's slacks. They were still unbuttoned and still unzipped and they slid off without a hitch. His jeans, on the other hand, had to be personally wrangled off.

He climbed back into the bed as Wolf pulled the sheets up and they held each other, closely and tightly. Jacket pressed soft kisses along Wolf's neck as he hummed happily, hands gripping the blond's shoulder. It was almost too much, unclothed skin pressed together, all of it at once. It was nice to touch another human being without charging violence or malice. It was a nice change of pace.

They were, by no means, prudes or shy, but the prospect of sex was far from their minds. They were too busy marvelling at each other in body, mind, and soul. Far too busy. The sheets were streaked with blood from Jacket's knuckles, the ragged flesh painting the fabric in swirling strokes as he let his hand wander across Wolf's skin. It grazed over its own handprint and Wolf winced at the contact with a sharp inhale. He breathed out slowly, face still scrunched in discomfort.

Jacket pulled his hand away from Wolf's hip as he propped himself up on an elbow. Wolf looked awful. Jacket grimaced as he peeled away the sheets. Wolf's left hip was marked in reds and deep purples, a distinguishable print on the side; a thumb and two fingers, clear as day.

Jacket hurt him. He wasn't going to dance around the fact that he had laid violent hands on him. To the point where Wolf's body succumbed, the capillary vessels broken, dark blood pooling beneath the thin surface of his skin. It must have hurt. A lot. At least the bite marks were fading away, the indents and edges noticeably less pronounced on his neck.

He was disturbed by his own work.

Wolf was shorter, but he was just as built. He was not considerably weaker than anyone in Payday. Strength was more than required on the job, being needed to hold up and run in ballistic vests, strapped to bags of loot, and sometimes a limp body over a shoulder, cold on their backs.

Wolf had barely touched him, had barely raised a hand, a fist, anything, to keep Jacket at bay. It wasn't like he was incapable. And it wasn't like he was scared.

Jacket pulled the covers back over their bodies.

Those were questions for another day.

\--

Dallas tried to not make a show of staring at Wolf. He really was. There wasn't a need to bring attention to it, not that it needed help, those scarlet and violet hues encircling his neck were like neon signs in Vegas.

And Wolf didn't seem to be noticing the staring from the others. He didn't even seem to be bothered or bashful about it, casually wearing a crew neck tee that revealed it all. Dallas looked around the table. Houston didn't care about anyone else's personal affairs, he knew that. But Chains and Hoxton. They were ogling.

Dallas gave a small cough, hoping to turn their attention away without being as obvious as they were being, but it was as if their eyes were superglued onto Wolf. Chains looked genuinely confused, face slightly taut with questioning, tinted with mild disgust for the implication that Wolf must have had some wild sex—not so much that Wolf had sex, but because that Chains was thinking about it. Aaand that he should really stop.

With difficulty, he managed to tear his eyes away and back to his salad, questions still running rampant in his mind. It wasn't like he thought Wolf didn't have sex—because that was silly...right?—it was just. It was just he didn't really think of Wolf as a human being. He choked on a spinach leaf. Wow, that came out wrong. Even in his mind.

Wolf was otherworldly, almost. He was like. A superhuman. Or a weird human. That didn't have regular human needs. Like sex. Or a need for healthy eating—because Chains has seen what Wolf likes to stuff into his body and, wow, suddenly he hoped it wasn't dicks. He nearly inhaled a crouton down the wrong pipe as he crossed that thought. Not that he was homophobic. Or anything. He coughed into his elbow. Because it's all cool. Men. Women. Both. Other.

Fuck. Stop thinking about Wolf taking it up the—FUCK! SHIT. Jesus, Chains.

He grabbed his plate and went downstairs in defeat.

Hoxton, on the other hand, wasn't staring as much as he was seething, his eyes sharp and angry. Dallas was a little concerned about him. There was something brewing beneath that tense surface, something that threatened to erupt and drown all of them in his spite. Something Dallas had to watch out for. Wolf was still oblivious to the others, munching away at his greens, a distracted look on his face, neck marked with dark hues.

He finally spoke. "You guys aren't actually all that stealthy." Wolf looked at them. "Haven't you ever seen a hickey before?"

Without missing a beat, "A hickey?" Hoxton shot back in disbelief. "Have you looked in the mirror lately? Your neck is more hickey than neck!"

"Mm. Passionate partner," Wolf mumbled, suddenly abashed.

"More like fucking psycho—"

"Fellas! Please. We're trying to have a nice dinner here," Dallas cut in awkwardly, eyes darting from Wolf to Hoxton.

Hoxton shut his mouth despite the fight in his eyes. He still wanted to argue, but not under Dallas' watch. He poked at his salad, instead.

Dallas, however, still wasn't happy. He watched as Wolf got up and slowly half-walked, half-limped to the kitchen with his empty plate and cup.

"Wolf." Dallas was on full alert now. "Did you get injured during the heist?" He didn't need a heister to be out of commission, even if they had quite the arsenal in Payday. And he didn't remember treating that limp. He needed that done now. He was in automatic mode now, mind going through his first aid training and what to do for any lower body injuries. He also needed to locate the first aid kit—probably somewhere in the garage or even downstairs.

But the Swede stopped and turned around with a casual, "Nope", before he half-walked and half-limped away, leaving Dallas with some seriously unwanted conclusions. He sat back down. Then got up again. Hoxton regarded him with annoyance, fork poised to stab a piece tomato on his plate.

No matter where it came from, it was still an injury. Dallas left the room, leaving his meal behind, in search for the nearest first aid kit.

With a red pouch in his hand, he began to circulate the safe house, in search of Wolf. He passed the kitchen and then returned to it, grabbing an ice pack from the freezer. Would probably be handy.

He went to the downstairs lounge—lounge was too much of a fancy word for it. It was a concrete room with an old couch and a small table, joined by some old cardboard boxes lying around. Lazy bastards.

It was empty.

Dallas realized that it was suddenly difficult to locate the Swede; one would usually hear or see some trouble—and there he'd be, probably with a weapon or two in hand. Maybe a corpse by his feet. He wasn't usually this quiet, ever. Dallas felt a bit alarmed about it, but hoped he was jumping the gun. Wolf was probably tired from today's heist.

Dallas quickly moved to the practice rooms. He peered in and found Jacket crouched by a safe, hand picking the lock. He turned his head slightly over his shoulder in acknowledgement before back his work. Wolf was standing beside him, watching quietly. He looked at the first aid kit then up at Dallas.

"Don't like salad?" Dallas asked Jacket. He approached Wolf and gestured him to sit down.

Jacket shook his head.

"He wasn't hungry," Wolf translated as he sat on the table. Dallas frowned down at the first aid kit in hand.

"Wolf, I think it might be better to do this in your room."

Wolf straightened up, a confused look at his face. Jacket paused his lock picking, head turning a fraction of an inch at attention. "What? Why?"

Dallas gave him a strange look. "Because you'd have to drop your pants so I can check on whatever is making you limp." Jacket bristled at that, head turning more to regard Dallas with a clouded cast. Dallas wasn't too keen on having this discussion with the blond in the room. He squared his shoulders. This had to be done. Quickly. "Wolf, I need to check your limp. It's protocol."

"I'm fine. It'll heal."

Dallas shot him a warning look. A look that threatened fury of a thousand suns. That familiar disciplinary look that Wolf received whenever his rifle was pointed at something it wasn't supposed to be pointed at. Or whenever they were about to exit the van for heists. Or whenever he got chastised by Bain for killing yet another innocent civilian, Dallas would always have that look pointed right at him.

Not wanting to cause unwanted grief to himself, the Swede shrugged and hopped off the table in compliance. The safe swung open loudly, the sharp cry of metal hitting metal echoing in their ears. Dallas ignored the ringing and impatiently gestured Wolf to follow him out. He thought he could feel two holes being burned into the back of his head as he led Wolf away.

Dallas was no stranger to Wolf's body. Or anyone else's. That was just the side effect of being the medical guy in Payday. Chains was more than qualified to handle the medical end, as he had a military background, though more often than not, he needed help pulling out bullets he absorbed for the rest of the crew. That was his thing. Tanking the shots.

Wolf leaned back, arms propping him up as Dallas looked over his swollen hip.

"I don't like how this looks," Dallas grumbled, pulling on a latex glove. He instructed Wolf to roll a bit to the side, so he could have a better view at the extent of the bruising. Wolf grunted with effort and tilted his hip upwards, brows taut with pain. Dallas almost wished he hadn't ask. It wasn't as if it was pulsing in purples and was incredibly life threatening or anything. It was just the plain handprint of some rough handling marked onto his skin. It wasn't too deep in colour and didn't stretch over too wide of an area, but it still left Dallas uncomfortable. Perhaps it was the intimate nature of the injury.

He hovered a gloved hand over the violet skin. "I'm going to check to see if everything's in place—" he met eyes with Wolf, "—don't move." He pressed down firmly, feeling for his hip bone, then the femur, checking to see if anything was off. The skin was warm, a little too warm. It was red and purple, puffy in appearance. He felt along the ridge of his hip. It felt like his hip bone was in its proper place, so was his leg, snug in its socket. He gestured Wolf to roll onto the opposite side. Dallas began to feel for any irregularities under the bruises.

He glanced up. Wolf was staring intently and silently at the ceiling, as if trying to distract from the pain. Dallas mulled over the thought that Wolf hadn't complained, yet. Wolf wasn't usually difficult, but he would at least whine. He was just quiet today. Almost thoughtful. Maybe thoughtless.

Dallas pulled back. "Should probably put some ice on it for the swelling...and the pain." He reached down to grab the ice pack by the first aid kit.

"What the fuck is that?"

Dallas whipped his head up. Hoxton was standing in the doorway, a hand on the knob, the other holding a box of crackers. What the fuck was Hoxton doing, barging in without a single knock? Was he out of his fucking mind?

Dallas peered back, finding Wolf not bothering to pull his pants up either, even with a new audience member in the room. He didn't even pull on his briefs. Jesus Christ.

"Get out." Dallas tilted his head towards the door. Hoxton frowned.

"You get out. This is my room."

Shit, right. They shared a fucking room. Dallas looked around, finding the other bed behind him.

"But more fucking importantly; what the fuck is that?"

"Just a bruise. I'm sure you've had one before. Now out." Dallas wrapped a cloth bandage over the ice pack. "I'm commandeering this room for medical purposes."

Hoxton didn't budge. He moved closer. "What's with you and all these fucking bruises?" He was ignoring Dallas now, directing his words to Wolf with a disgusted look. "Should I be worried?"

"No."

"I'm not fucking around."

Wolf shrugged.

"Wolf." Hoxton glared at him.

"Hoxton," Dallas started. "Out. Now."

"Not until he tells me how the fuck he keeps getting these fucking injuries."

"Why do you care?" Dallas asked, rather exasperated. He brought the wrapped ice pack up and clamped it between Wolf's hand and hip.

Hoxton bit his tongue.

"Fine, just finish whatever the fuck you're doing. And pull your trousers up, Wolf." He shut the door, nearly slamming it. Dallas exhaled slowly, feeling older than usual. Like as if he could physically sense a new crop of grey hairs sprouting from his head. He turned to Wolf.

"You should pull your briefs on at least."

Wolf shrugged at that. "Nothing you haven't seen before," he said, reluctantly leaning forwards and grabbing his pants.

"Unfortunately," Dallas muttered under his breath. He rose to a standing position, the red pouch in hand. He fell silent, absentmindedly watching Wolf struggle to pull his slacks on. Did he dare to ask where and who he got the bruises from? Dallas had a feeling it was the same person who was guilty for roughing up Wolf's neck. No. He couldn't ask. He glanced over his shoulder at the door. And it seemed Wolf and Hoxton were drifting apart. It was a strange thing to conclude. It did seem like their friendship was under some strain recently. Dallas briefly wondered if it had to do with him recruiting a new member with little notice.

Hoxton had been more irritable after prison. He was only incarcerated for two years, not a very long time, but it wasn't like prison needed a long time to break a person.

And his face. Dallas had refrained from asking about it. A lot of Hoxton's qualities were now treated similarly to Wolf's—just don't. Just do not mention it, do not bring it up, and God forbid, do not ask about it. Hoxton was still the same crude Brit in superficial appearance, but Dallas wasn't stupid. At least not completely so. Something was off. Something was different. Hoxton had been broken down and rebuilt in prison. By will or force, Dallas didn't know.

He watched Wolf slip the ice pack into his pocket.

"Now I don't have to carry it and it's already against it," Wolf beamed, pleased with his discovery.

Dallas looked it over. As long as the ice pack was in position to aid, it didn't matter how Wolf attached it to his body. "Grab another for the other side." Wolf nodded and bounded out to the kitchen.

Dallas tossed and caught the compact pouch in his hand, turning it over, lost in thought. He stood alone in Wolf and Hoxton's shared room, wondering when it had all gone to hell.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos! Your love keeps me going.


	5. Let's Go Shopping!

As per Chain's request, Hoxton, Wolf, and Jacket begrudgingly followed him to the supermarket.

"Why does it have to be us?" Wolf whined, leaning towards the driver's seat. Chains gripped the wheel with both hands and closed his eyes, taking a deep generous breath and counting up to five slowly and silently with deliberation. Wolf had a knack of being a huge childish bitch when he gets forced to do a simple chore and Chains was not in the mood for it again. Wolf had whined when groceries were mentioned, Wolf had whined when Chains forced him to get dressed, and he had whined on the way out to the car. Hoxton and Jacket didn't seem to be bothered by the incessant bellyaching, it was to the point where Chains wondered if they could even hear. He took another deep breath.

"Because you guys," Chains started, a little more than impatient, "are the only ones without lives outside of Payday, so you get the honourable job of keeping the shared safe house fully and well stocked."

Hoxton slammed the passenger door shut. "Why can't Clover or Bonnie do it, they're women, they like shopping," Hoxton grumbled, clipping on his seatbelt. He sat back in a huff, arms crossed. Chains made eye contact with himself through the rear view mirror with a tired expression. What have you gotten yourself into, Chains?

It was a task that needed to be done. It was a simple ass task. And it needed to be done. Huge emphasis on that. No shooting, no close brushes with death. No pain. They needed to stock the pantry. It wasn't like it was a stressful mission of any sort. They had even been starting to live on crackers and peanut butter by Thursday, a wholly unhealthy diet—they needed some food, some real food.

"That is some sexist bullshit, Hoxton." Chains put the key into ignition, feeling too old and too exhausted already. Hoxton scoffed under his breath.

The drive wasn't too long nor too bad, just minimal headache business. Wolf liked to watch scenery whiz by, which was a very canine thing, Chains mused, and the bonus was that it kept him silent. The view had Wolf captivated enough to calm him down. Only sounds in the form of short phrases used to point out landmarks and buildings and signs every now and then to Jacket, who silently acknowledged them in turn. Chains glimpsed into the rear view mirror at them. Wolf was pointing at something in the sky now, speaking to Jacket in an excited, but hushed tone.

Chains pulled into the parking lot, cruising around for a spot close to the front doors, unwilling to walk the extra short distance. He didn't need another reason for any of them to complain.

They'll carry heavy ass bags of gold and run up stairs upon stairs, but god forbid they walk a few extra metres from the supermarket to the car.

He parked the car and they all exited, closing the doors gently under Chains warning gaze. A cart was grabbed and wheeled in with the others following loosely behind Chains, no longer grumbling.

He then became aware of how fucking strange they must look to every other shopper in the supermarket. Four guys, different ethnicities, though similar ages, just hanging out and collecting groceries. Too old for frats, too many for a family. They were probably baffling to look at. If Chains had it his way, he'd only bring Hoxton along, or even just Jacket. Whoever complained less and whoever had more social skills.

Chains shrugged away from Wolf as he moved closer. "What do you want?" he asked, watching the shorter man inch towards him.

"Want to push the cart," Wolf replied.

Chains elbowed him. "No, man, I'm pushing it!"

Wolf frowned at him, a hand gripping the edge of the metal grating. "Why can't I?"

"It's a big ass metal box on wheels, Wolf, I'm not trusting you to not ram into the other shoppers." He swatted at the Swede's hand.

"Wolf, just let the man control the cart," Hoxton said irritably, grabbing the scruff of his shirt. Wolf whined. A nearby couple glanced over at them.

Chains just wheeled the cart faster.

\--

They were finally fucking finished with the groceries. Chains didn't even bother to try and get Wolf to help with putting them away. It was just more unnecessary bellyaching. Thankfully, Jacket was polite enough to stick around. He was a quiet man. No. Scratch that. He would be more accurately pegged as silent.

It was a large load, which was a given, as it would have to serve about nine hungry heisters for about a week or two. Closer to three as the rest of Payday led lives elsewhere, but they all came and go as they pleased because it was technically a shared space and of course, Chains was specifically thinking about Dallas, they were all prone to snacking, especially after heists.

Chains was rummaging through the plastic bags and pulling out their purchases. Far too many frozen TV dinners and packaged instant noodles for his taste, but he would bet on his two hands that Wolf, Hoxton, and Jacket couldn't cook even if their lives depended on it. The whole meth thing had just been a fluke.

So into the pantry goes the instant noodles and into the freezer the frozen TV dinners. Chains rummaged through the bags some more. Eggs, milk, and soy milk for the lactose intolerant. Too many boxes of cereal, again, because of the whole can't cook deal. And some bread, butter, and cheese for the grilled cheese sandwiches only Wolf can make without burning down the house.

Chains grumbled to himself as he put away the carb and sugar laden foods. Their whole careers were based on physical integrity and Dallas let them have white bread and frosted corn flakes. Chains felt like they needed to talk about caring for their bodies. Then he pulled out a clear plastic box containing six large baked goods from a bag. Double chocolate muffins?! Was that even a muffin anymore? He shook his head.

Chains finally managed to clear through the processed shit before he got to the good stuff. Fruits and veggies. The staples of his diet, unlike some other people he knew and lived around.

Jacket appeared in the side of his vision, a box of Twinkies in his hand. He pointed at it with his other hand. Chains glanced at him.

"Yeah, you can have some."

Jacket frowned and pointed at a cupboard. Oh.

"That goes in the sweets shelf—uh, here," said Chains, pulling open a cabinet. Jacket gave him a vaguely amused look as he placed the box in. "Shut up, man," Chains retorted, closing the door. "It's hard to read you sometimes."

Jacket offered a small smile as some sort of a reconciliation prize before turning to the bags. Hunched over, he began to pull more packages of junk food out. Chains regarded him absentmindedly. Jacket was a good member of the team—he was orderly and he was stealthy, and above all, he was obedient. He followed Dallas' orders without a hitch, an important feature for a smooth crew, especially one that already had caught the eyes of authorities. Slim and standing at 5'11", Chains often forgot that the man had vicious power and strength, fatal especially when coupled with his dexterity and speed. Chains was more than eager to test him in a loud mission.

Jacket, oblivious to Chains' examination, continued to stock the pantry. His face held no emotion, just a basic resting face. Chains found it mildly disturbing—usually people who don't display emotion too well are the same people who don't have too much self-awareness. And they had quite the arsenal of fire power in the shooting range.

However, Chains supposed it was different. Jacket has a relaxed feel to him, his shoulders gently squared, his back softly straightened. He was never quite wound up with anything. In fact, how he carried his weapons, his guns, and his self—Chains did a double take.

He wasn't sure on how he hadn't noticed it before.

Still oblivious, or maybe he was just ignoring the attention, Jacket took the now emptied plastic bag and tied a neat knot with it, intending to store it somewhere, only to place it on the counter to sort out the other bags. There were still a few filled with fresh vegetables and fruits to sort out.

The silver fridge was opened up and Jacket took some time to stand and analyze the components.

As he did so, Chains continued to analyze his movements. It was familiar; the gait of his walk, the subtle stiffness in his back, it was similar to Wick's. It was similar to his own.

Jacket stepped back and pulled out the cartons of eggs from one of the bags and slid them onto a shelf of the fridge. He did the same with the cartons of orange juice. The bottles of salad dressing went onto the shelves of the doors, along with the ketchup and other condiments. He paused before returning with the broccoli and carrots, loading them on the shelf beneath the eggs. He was deliberate with his actions, never second guessing. Jacket surveyed the scene and then acted, something he was eerily skilled at and could do at a far faster pace amidst battle. He was quick on his feet.

"Jacket." Chains leaned against the counter, arms cross over his chest. The other man looked over before shutting the fridge door, sensing a conversation. "You're ex-military."

Jacket didn't seem fazed. He didn't even seem to react. He just connected his gaze to Chains, holding it steady, holding it strong. There was barely anything discernible in his eyes and expression—it was almost blank, save for the quiet determination.

Chains was unsure of the response, or lack of thereof. He wasn't quite used to dealing with the man yet and he was worried if he had struck a nerve. "I'm sorry, man," he said, after a beat. He shook his head. "You don't have to answer. I was just curious."

To his surprise, Jacket gave a curt nod before returning to the groceries with the same blank expression.

\--

He stood outside the wooden door, hesitant. It was late in the evening and the city was quiet and the safe house matched the demeanour. Chains had returned to his civilian apartment, opting to take a break from them for a night. Jacket couldn't blame him, really. They could be a handful at times. As for Wolf, well, Jacket wasn't sure where the man was. He was definitely not in the house, which was a rare and perfect opportunity.

What else was rare was what he was feeling—anxiety, nervousness, worry. He hadn't let him emotions overcome him in a while, he rarely let them be heard. The ability of emotional reservation served him well for most of his life—it kept his didactic reasoning in the forefront, leaving no margin for error of empathy, sympathy, fear, kindness, or mercy.

He looked down at his hands. Though anger often slipped through the cracks and it allowed him to leave a wake of bloody bodies. It could be useful at times, the anger fuelling his fists during combat. He just hadn't meant for Wolf to be another amongst the pile. Jacket rolled his wrist, examining the scabbed over skin on his knuckles, crusty and threatening to burst at the seams. He had been foolish. He had made a mistake. He would not let it happen again.

He raised his other hand, free of injuries, and knocked firmly on the door. As he waited, he stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. Then he pulled them out and let them hang at his sides, not wanting to be more intimidating than he needed to be.

Hoxton peered between the door and frame, giving him a wary look. "Need something?"

Jacket nodded and gestured to the living room. Hoxton pulled the door open further and leaned out. He tilted his head, looking expectantly towards where Jacket had pointed to.

He frowned. "What?"

Jacket pulled out his tape recorder. "Oh, how nice to have some company." He tried not to wince, but it was really the best piece he had. He hoped it would get his point across. Hoxton had a slight look of distaste curled on his lips.

Crossing his arms, "That's not a good idea."

Jacket looked him over, slipping the device back into his pocket.

"Just because you're fucking Wolf," Hoxton continued. "It doesn't suddenly make us best of friends."

Jacket tried not to furrow his brows at the mention of Wolf. It wasn't about Wolf. This wasn't what this was about. He gestured to the living room again.

Hoxton shook his head. "You're a persistent fucker." He took a step back only to jump slightly when Jacket slapped his hand onto the door with what Hoxton read as a pleading look.

Jacket had never really needed to communicate before Payday. He was a lone wolf, the sole killer, the one brute. He took and followed orders. He didn't give anything back. But now, these were people, they were a team. They needed communication and cooperation to function and Jacket assumed he would have gotten by with basic phrases recorded on tape. Again, a foolish mistake.

Hoxton's jaw clenched and his eyes—god, his eyes. Wide and weary, something that has been making far too many appearances on his burned and weathered face.

Jacket relaxed his shoulders, but kept his hand on the door. He didn't want Hoxton to shut himself in again. He was locked up for so long in jail and now he was doing it to himself. Why?

Jacket was frozen in the limbo of not Hoxton's room and Hoxton's room, unsure of where his place was. Should he invade or should he draw Hoxton out? The two options both had their own lengthy lists of pros and cons, but it didn't matter because most importantly, Jacket didn't want to scare him anymore. He let his gaze fall to Hoxton's trembling hands, unsurprised when the Brit stuffed them back into his armpits. Hoxton no longer had the mask of cold strength. He let his temple touch the door frame, closing his eyes at the touch. "Don't tell Wolf," he muttered. Then more pointedly, "And don't tell Dallas."

Jacket nodded and finally lifted his fingers from the door. Hoxton brushed past him, hunched over, hands tucked under his arms. He looked exhausted. He looked pitiful. It wasn't a good look for him, Jacket thought as he followed him to the living room. He sat down across from his slumped form on the couches as Hoxton drew his gaze away to the wall for a moment.

Hoxton seemed to consider his words carefully, struggling to put his thoughts into cohesive sentences to be communicated. He didn't have to soften it, leaving it blunt and open. Jacket reckoned they didn't have time nor the patience for any careful dilly dally of sorts.

"You are the worst fucking thing to have happened to me," Hoxton finalized with an empty laugh. Jacket nodded slowly, agreeing with no protest. He had been overzealous to make Wolf happy, he knew that. He had let his emotions rule over him and drive his fists into Hoxton's face unwarranted. He had invaded his home at his weakest and forced him out. He shouldn't have done it because Hoxton hadn't deserved it.

" _I'm sorry_ ," he clicked out. Hoxton shut his eyes for a few seconds, gathering his thoughts.

"I know." Hoxton shifted on the couch, folding his still shaking hands together. "And I've mostly forgotten about that." Then he tilted his head towards him, an angry scowl flickering on his face. "But you really need to lighten your hands, Jacket."

Taken aback, Jacket was slow to find a recording. He gave up and tossed the device aside. He spread his hands out in bewilderment, receiving a burning glare in return.

"Mate, we all see those handprints," Hoxton muttered with impatience.

Handprints?

“On Wolf,” Hoxton continued.

Oh. Jacket shook his head quickly.

"I am not going to let that happen to him again," Hoxton warned. "You fucking watch yourself. Wolf can be a stupid motherfucker. He doesn't understand." He sat forwards in his seat, hands clenched into fists. "He’ll just put the blame on himself, I know he will."

Jacket swallowed as he nodded. He knew that, too.

"You promise?" Hoxton asked, tilting his head back. Jacket closed his eyes and nodded. Yes. "Look me in the eyes." Jacket did what he was told.

Hoxton didn't relaxed or look to be relieved. He was still tense, his hands curled into rigid folds. He bowed his head, hands shaking their way up to his temples. Jacket felt a tinge of worry, wondering if it was another 'sushi' incident again. Hoxton had looked just as shaken up then, his eyes dulled and glazed. But Wolf had been there with him, now Jacket was all who remained.

Hoxton stayed in his bowed position, taking heavy breaths that threatened to tear. Jacket rose from his seat and Hoxton jerked up, alarmed. The blond, with both hands up and in front of him, advanced slowly and sat beside him. It was the least he could do.

He reached an arm out and Hoxton watched him, panicked. He shook his head, eyes wide. "No," he mustered. He folded himself and turned away, the tiny tremors of his hands slowly starting to go. The blond just sat back and left his arm fall. He didn't know how to help.

He had seen it before, the fear, the unrelinquishing dread, the trauma. It was not uncommon for the people of his life to have had caught the break. Violence does that to humans.

Jacket could see the façade of old Hoxton, the ghost of his old self. He put it on quite often in front of Jacket and the others, but he'd seen him crumbled with Wolf. He was not the same. He was different, like crackled porcelain wrapped in shiny paper. He was fragile. Jacket refused to believe that Payday would abandon Hoxton because of the development. Killers, thieves, criminals, yes, but heartless enough to cast aside a longtime teammate? Jacket doubted it.

There wasn't a need for Hoxton to shut himself in. He needed help, help that only professionals could provide—not worried friends and colleagues. Jacket scratched the back of his neck in thought before reaching over and taking his tape recorder to fiddle with the controls.

Hoxton let out a breath and leaned back into the couch. He was splayed out and there was certain gloom in his eyes as he searched the ceiling. Jacket looked up from the device.

"You don't talk," Hoxton muttered pointedly.

Jacket frowned. This was not news. He continued to watch, puzzled, as Hoxton covered his face and groaned loudly into the palms of his hands.

"I feel like I'm going crazy," he said with a laugh. He shook his head, hands sliding off his face. "I'm fucked and I'm here trying to keep some mute company."

Jacket tensed. Hoxton was beginning to be increasingly animated. He was almost hysterical.

"And I'm just...talking to myself," he continued with some realization. He turned his head and stared at Jacket, who in turn, stared right back. There was a long beat of silence. "I am talking to myself." He dropped his head into his hands, strands of his dark hair falling from behind his ear, cascading down smoothly. Curled up, he looked even smaller than before.

Jacket reached out again and rested a hand of assurance on his shoulder. Curiously, Hoxton froze at the touch and for a split second, almost relaxed before pulling away.

"I asked you not to do that," he said stiffly.

Right. " _I'm sorry_ ," Jacket offered and retracted his hand. He wondered if Hoxton were to react the same if it had been Wolf or the others, or if it was non-discriminate. It was hard to say. He wanted to ask why, but somehow knew better than to open up that can of worms. He'd have to find another way to comfort the Brit. Somehow.

Hoxton looked bitter as he stood up. "Just don't fucking hit him." He stuffed his hands into his pockets and slumped back to his room, the door closing with a quiet and defeated click. Jacket watched, doleful, as Hoxton shut himself in again.

\--

Wolf arrived home with a box of pizza. "Thought Chains was still here," he said, plopping the box onto a counter. Jacket shook his head. Chains was probably tired of them. The man needed his rest. And his sanity. Wolf smiled as he procured the dinner plates from the cabinets, "We're not that bad." Jacket gave him a heavy dose of skepticism as he flipped open the cardboard lid. Somewhere, in another universe, that might be true.

"Hoxton likes Hawaiian pizza. Is he still awake?"

Jacket shrugged a shoulder. He hadn't bothered him since and he wasn't sure if Hoxton wanted to be bothered again.

Though, Jacket thought, it would probably be nice to have him out and eating some hot food, even if it was just greasy cheese and pineapples and ham. He went over anyways and knocked on his door after the deliberation. Hoxton didn't answer. Not at first.

As Jacket was about to turn away, the door opened up revealing Hoxton to be pulling on a hooded sweatshirt as he crossed the threshold. He must have heard their conversation. He sniffed the air and gave Jacket a curious look.

"Hoxton! It's your favourite!" Wolf called from the kitchen. Jacket watched and then followed Hoxton out.

They seated themselves at the island counter, eating the junk food together with some unfounded tension in the air. Jacket wasn't quite sure on what it was, because he certainly didn't remember any wrongdoings or misgivings.

Maybe it was just Wolf's sombre silence. Maybe it was Hoxton's obvious exhaustion. Or maybe it was how Jacket was mute and it rendered him unable to contribute to regular human conversations.

There was a whole garden variety of possible reasons, but all that was evident now was that it was tense. The silence was thick and heavy and weighed on their collective conscience and Jacket huffed, intending to break it.

He looked at the other men.

It didn't seem to work.

“It's Clover’s birthday in next week,” Hoxton spoke. His accented voice rumbled in the kitchen, contrasted against the quiet before. The words themselves, well, they just instilled more silence, silence of confusion and puzzlement. Clover? Birthday? Hoxton? That was his conversation starter?

Jacket supposed it wasn’t all that strange. Clover had been his apprentice years ago and she had been the first to fuck him over like so. In the current day and age, they happened to have to work side by side in the same crew towards the same goal on the same team. Jacket often wondered how they didn't rip each other’s throats out from their prior history, but he supposed they both had gotten over it. If that was possible.

“Should we get her a birthday present?” Wolf asked with mouthful of cheese. Jacket grimaced at the image. For a neat and orderly guy with his folded clothes and pressed sheets, Wolf sure didn't have much etiquette at the table. Jacket looked down at his plate and his greasy hand clutching a pizza slice. Well, neither did he.

Hoxton chewed with thought before speaking. “I was thinking about it. But I honestly don’t know what she likes.”

Excitedly, with his hands raised, “Shopping trip!” Wolf exclaimed. “I love getting gifts for people.”

Hoxton glared at him for the sudden outburst. “I know now.”

With a vague sense of being an outsider, Jacket noticed that he didn't really observe any of their customs. He supposed being a hired gun would lead him down the path of solidarity and oddity without need for mundane privileges of gifting and birthdays and holidays. He didn't quite remember getting or receiving presents. Honestly, the memories he had of his childhood felt like a long lifetime ago. He picked at the warm pineapples on his slice of pizza. He wasn't sure if it was even his childhood and not just snippets of tv shows and media haphazardly stapled together to produce a barely coherent string of events that might just be his childhood memories.

He hadn't given it thought before and he wished he hadn't started now. It wasn't a good thing to dwell on.

Wolf casted his eyes over, watching Jacket with a concerned expression. Jacket gave a minimal shake of his head and finished his pizza in two quick bites, standing and walking over to the sink to rinse his dish.

He sat back down with a cool glass of water and waited. He didn't quite have anything to wait for. Jacket surmised he was just waiting for something to happen.

Nothing really happened. The night ended uneventfully and Hoxton shut himself in again after begrudgingly helping Wolf with the dishes. Jacket retired to his own room and started to change into his sleepwear, only to be surprised when the door opened and Wolf peeked in.

“Bad time?”

Jacket pulled the t-shirt the rest of the way down and shook his head. He opened his arms and scooped Wolf towards him, holding him close, holding him tightly. He smelled faintly of cigarettes and aftershave.

“Thought I’d give Hoxton some privacy. He looked a bit...spooked,” Wolf whispered as he shut the door.

Jacket felt his insides drop in temperature slightly. It may or may not be his fault. Again.

He kissed Wolf’s temple. Maybe leaving Hoxton spooked and alone wasn’t the best idea at the moment. Something was going on with the man that couldn't be hidden or fixed with quick quips and fiery tempers. He was disintegrating. Wolf looked at him, confused.

“Should I go back?”

Jacket nodded. Yes, he should.

Hesitantly, “Alright. Good night.” Wolf leaned over and pressed a quick peck on his lips and returned to the shared bedroom.

\--

The three went to the mall the next afternoon. Of course, not the mall that Vlad had them trash, but it was pretty close within the vicinity that was the city. Jacket remembered those days vividly—no stress, just destroy. It had been a simple and wonderfully fun contract.

“Where should we start?” Hoxton asked, looking up. Jacket followed his gaze up to the multiple levels of glass and shiny signs and collective consumerism.

“Well, what does she like?” Wolf replied, flipping through the mall map.

“Hell if I know.”

“Jacket?”

He shook his head, at loss of what could possibly be an appropriate birthday gift for a criminal colleague. Paying little heed, Wolf just chewed his lip, still scanning the pamphlet with thought as Hoxton and Jacket stood, a little stupidly, beside him.

“Jewelry seems like a weird thing to get a friend,” Wolf thought aloud.

“No shit,” Hoxton scoffed.

“And clothes would be weird, too. We don't even know her size,” Wolf continued, frowning as he read down the list. Jacket looked around at the stores around them. There was a toy store, a little tech shop, and a brightly lit bookstore with books piled up neatly in the main window display. That looked interesting. He darted off and decided to browse there, not quite waiting for the others.

Wolf looked up from the pamphlet. “Bookstore? I don't know.” He gestured with his head at the toy store across the hall. “I was thinking of a cute stuffed animal or something.”

Hoxton scratched his head. “Wait. What the fuck are we doing at a mall? Why didn't we just buy something from Gage?”

Wolf gave him an appalled expression. “Because I want to get her something nice!”

“What's not nice about a brand new shiny Deagle, with modded grips and laser sights?”

“Because that's for work and we should get something fun,” Wolf scoffed as he turned away to the toy store.

Hoxton remained standing there for a moment, confused, before hastily running after Wolf with a burning question. “What’s not fun about a Deagle?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Zjol.


End file.
